


Je m'appelle Lafayette

by Blue_Clover



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alexander is not Well, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Battle of Brandywine, Blood and Injury, Canon Era, Eventual Romance, Hamilton Lyrics, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt Marquis de Lafayette, Hurt/Comfort, John is a Good Friend, M/M, Misunderstandings, Multi, Non-Consensual Touching, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Revolutionary War, Slow Burn, Suicidal Ideation, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Washington has a Soft Heart, established Alexander Hamilton/Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette, eventual polyamory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:34:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 91,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26795203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Clover/pseuds/Blue_Clover
Summary: Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette, proud Frenchman and avid fighter for liberty, is willing to give everything he has in order for the Colonies to win this war: His comforts and birth-given ease of living, his money, his titles, his social standing in France, his sword, and most importantly, his heart and his life. But as the Battle of Brandywine takes a drastic turn for the worse, the General of the Continental Army, his aides-de-camp, and America’s most spirited Frenchman will see their strength and resilience trialled in different and shattering ways.Will they recover, or will the heartbreak be too much to bear?
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/George Washington, Alexander Hamilton/Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette, Alexander Hamilton/Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette/George Washington, Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette/George Washington
Comments: 89
Kudos: 75
Collections: Hamilton fanfic recommendations





	1. Summer Nights Are Quiet

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any Hamilton the Musical or Turn (2014) references or any incidental likeness of them, only the plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi peeps! I've been mulling over this idea for a story ever since Hamilton was released on Disney+ (God knows how many of us fell back into this fandom after that bombshell, am I right?)  
> So here is the start of it; it's both sappy and dark and doubtlessly full of historical inaccuracy and anachronisms, but please bear with me... How's my sales pitch so far? Haha  
> Anyway, I'll try to update regularly, but with school and the general mess of the world situation, I shan't make promises I can't keep. But I have the whole scenario planned out, and I'm definitely motivated to try and get this show (hah) on the road! 
> 
> (P.S: Most italics represent French, translations are in the notes at the end!)
> 
> Leave a kudos and/or a comment if you like it, it'd make my day! :)

* * *

Summer nights are quiet. Whereas soldiers were sleepless from the harsh cold winds of winter and fear of never waking again, they now rest with less discomfort, lulled by the warm breeze and gentle sounds of nature that sneak past the flaps of their tents.

Most soldiers are blissfully asleep, gathering the energy needed for tomorrow, for when another long and arduous march is planned. Some soldiers remain awake, whispering among themselves stories of their life prior to enlisting, wistful tales of plans regarding their future after the war. Lately, some soldiers don’t dare to speculate on whether it will be a war won at all, so long as they make it out alive, to return to their worried wives or betrothed.

While some soldiers battle against doubt, others battle against the panic clawing its way up their throats as they wake from memory-induced nightmares of their fellow compatriots bleeding out around the blade of the enemy, blown far and wide following the deafening roar of British cannons, or drawing their last ragged breath from infected lungs.

While George Washington’s camp remains quiet with sleep or restlessness, two soldiers forgo both for a private moment they can share before they must part come morning. One is only half-heartedly reluctant to leave the premises of camp, smiling fondly as the other nearly trips over yet another root while rapidly leading the former through the woods in which their camp is set for the night. Both soldiers’ eyes glint with mischief and anticipation.

“Alexander,” one of the soldiers whispers just loud enough to be heard, even though the last outer-circle tent is no longer within eyesight, having avoided the night sentinels, “Should you fall in your haste, know that I will not hesitate to laugh.” The soldier’s accent, already thick during the day, is now more pronounced from long, exhausting hours of reviewing and revising strategy with the other generals, as well as excitement.

Luckily, the moon is nearly full tonight, dimly illuminating the uneven terrain for Alexander Hamilton as he continues to lead their trek another half-minute into the unoccupied parts of the woods. Suddenly, he stops and spins around abruptly, forcing the other soldier to dig the heels of his boots into the dry dirt to avoid impact.

“As I recall, it was _you_ who urged me to abandon the stack of unanswered letters for this nightly excursion.” Alexander grins innocently up at the other soldier, raising a hand to playfully tug at the taller man’s cravat. “Of course, should you regret this decision, we could always go back–”

Alexander cuts off his own teasing sentence with a huff of laughter as he is grabbed by the lapels of his blue coat and pushed back until his back collides with the tree closest behind him, his fellow soldier’s strength carefully measured as not to inflict pain.

“ _Mon petit lion_ ,” Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette, purrs as he angles his body intimately close to Alexander’s, nearly touching, “You have worked hard today, _oui?_ Surely, you will agree with me that you deserve a, how you say, _récompense?_ ”

He leans even closer, his breath ghosting over Alexander’s lips as the smaller man tilts his head back in order to meet the Lafayette’s eye.

Alexander swallows, gaze briefly flickering down to the Frenchman’s mouth. He licks his lips, both excited and smug to see the other man’s eyes follow the movement.

“ _Ton anglais te fait défaut, Gilbert,_ ” he whispers, pronouncing the name perfectly, hands creeping up to fist Lafayette’s waistcoat, coaxing him to take the final step closer until their chests meet.

“So is yours, _mon chou_ ,” Lafayette answers with a smirk. It takes a whole of two motionless seconds before both men move simultaneously, their lips crashing together hungrily.

Lafayette presses Alexander harder against the large trunk of the pine tree, one hand sliding down to hold him by the waist while the other one comes up to seek the once high queue and pulls it loose. Long, elegant fingers tangle into the raven shoulder-long hair, causing the Caribbean man to gasp, giving Lafayette the opportunity to deepen the kiss. Alexander responds by reaching for Lafayette’s breeches to unfasten them. His movements, fumbling and almost clumsy in their haste, draw a low chuckle out of the Marquis, who breaks the kiss to allow them both a much-needed breath.

“You are impatient tonight, _mon petit lion_ ,” Lafayette observes with open amusement, raising his hand to pull at Alexander’s cravat, letting it fall silently to the ground. He then dips his head to pepper kisses along the smooth column of Alexander’s throat, “What if I wish to unravel you slowly this time, mhm? Have you come undone only on the day of my birth, _poétique, n’est-ce pas?_ ”

He smiles against the jumping pulse beneath his lips as Alexander lets out a small whine, stilling his maneuver.

“I am certain midnight has passed,” Alexander presses, slightly breathless, “You may therefore proceed. And, consider this my well-wishes _pour ton anniversaire_.”

With another chuckle, Lafayette then allows his hand to wander lower to rest above Alexander’s navel, one finger pressing teasingly where a prominent bulge already dents his breeches. “My my, impatient indeed.”

“Gilbert...” Alexander sighs shakily, barely restraining himself from shifting into the light touch. His hands fall down to his sides. “Please...” He whines again when Lafayette releases his hair in favor of bracing himself against the tree as he raises a knee to part Alexander’s legs, nudging at his clothed arousal.

Lafayette kisses his lips again, absorbing the groan drawn from Alexander’s throat, before settling his hands on the smaller man’s hips with finality and smiling fondly. “It is impossible to say _non_ to you, Alexander.”

The Marquis drops to his knees with practiced grace, without breaking his gaze with Alexander’s wide, dilated eyes. He undoes Alexander’s breeches effortlessly, finally freeing him from confinement. Only then does Lafayette look away from the orbs in which he could easily lose himself, to focus on the equally addicting part of his Alexander. _His_ Alexander.

“My Alexander,” he voices out loud, his tone reverent, thinking –and most definitely not for the first time– how lucky he is to have met this man for whom he kneels. What he wouldn’t trade for more time with his beloved Alexander. And a proper bed in a sealed, sound-proof room.

“My Marquis...” Alexander’s voice, bewitchingly pleading and possessive, compels him into action. He leans forward, digging his fingers into Alexander’s hips in a claiming grip, and kisses the tip of the erect member lovingly. He revels in the choked gasp that sounds above him, continuing to tease gently with his tongue as he massages the taut muscles of Alexander’s thighs.

When the sound of bark cracking under Alexander’s tense hands resonates through the woods, the Frenchman finally takes pity on the trembling body under his care, and fully leans forward to capture the twitching erection into his eager mouth.

Lafayette closes his eyes as he expertly applies his skilled tongue into what he considers to be a most enjoyable task, smug with every pleased sound he can draw from his companion. He dips his right hand into Alexander’s breeches to cup where he cannot reach with his tongue.

As a result, Alexander’s moans become louder, combined with more broken bark and a thud of his head against the solid trunk. Lafayette pulls back just enough to speak, voice rough and accent thick with arousal. He gazes up to meet Alexander’s glazed eyes.

“Lower your voice, _mon lion rugissant_ , or you will attract attention,” Lafayette smirks, “You wouldn’t want _notre_ _Général_ to find us like this, would you?”

Lafayette nearly laughs outright at the resulting odd sound, a staggering groan, escaping Alexander’s lips. Instead, he continues his ministrations with a knowing hum. This is not the first time Lafayette has dropped Washington’s name during their amorous proclivities, and Alexander’s reaction is always telling, although the chief aide-de-camp has never commented upon it, and Lafayette has never attempted to broach the subject past a light teasing. Alexander must come to his own conclusions, and when he does, Lafayette will be there to see him through the confusion with soft words of encouragement.

For now, he focuses on alleviating the pressure that has made its home in Alexander’s body, cheeks flushed and ears ringing with the blasphemous way his name drips from the Caribbean man’s red-bitten lips. Lafayette stops only as Alexander gasps out a warning, raising back to his feet to muffle the whine of frustration emitting from the other man. The Frenchman tuts him playfully, all the while fishing a small pot of familiar oil from his coat pocket, showcasing it with a wink.

“Now now, _mon chou,_ we don’t want for you to finish too soon, _non?_ ”

Alexander’s responding moan of anticipation sets the Marquis aflame, a fire coursing through his body, all-consuming in its path, devouring in turn every inch of the body presented to him without fail.

* * *

“Was throwing my cravat to the ground absolutely necessary?” Alexander sighs in mock-annoyance as he picks up the rumpled piece of cloth, giving it a shake to clear it of the specks of dirt and pine needles. They’ve taken long, blissful minutes to pull themselves out of the beatific state they had sunk into, exchanging lazy kisses until they could catch their breath and compose themselves.

Lafayette, who’s only just finished tidying up his hair, turns to Alexander with an unapologetic grin. “Why yes, I believe it was.” He takes a step forward, leaning close to readjust Alexander’s collar, tracing the possessive mark he’d left where his shoulder meets the neck with a single finger. “ _Sinon, comment aurais-je pu te laisser ma marque?_ ”

Alexander huffs, a small, content smile adorning his lips, which Lafayette takes great pleasure in pecking as he pulls a couple of pine needles from his companion’s hair. “Besides,” the Frenchman adds smugly, “It is my date of birth now. I may do as I wish.”

“You are incorrigible, _mon cher Gilbert_ ,” Alexander teases.

“Ah, yes, but you will miss me when I depart tomorrow.” The Frenchman winks, giving Alexander one more look-over, taking note of the downhearted look that flashes in the other man’s expressive eyes. His own smile falls, raising a hand to gently cradle Alexander’s cheek. “We will not be separated for long, and when I return, I will have you forgetting _ton propre nom_.”

Alexander’s features relax minutely with a fond huff of laughter, and Lafayette considers it a victory. Together, they make their way back to camp, silent and discreet. The Frenchman proudly notices Alexander’s slight limp and tired steps, and knows his companion will sleep soundly tonight.

By now, the few campfires that had remained fed when they had made their escapade are reduced to dim embers, barely illuminating the dark camp. A few scattered tents still harbor flickering lights, and one tent in particular, bigger than the others, imposing and familiar to all soldiers no matter their rank, stands at attention.

“The General is awake,” Alexander breaks the silence as they near their own tent, shared with John Laurens, only a few yards away from Washington’s, “I’ll–”

“No, Alexander,” Lafayette hisses, catching the chief aide-de-camp’s arm as he makes to step towards the General’s tent, “You are going to sleep, _maintenant_.”

“But he might need–”

“You have worked enough today,” the Marquis says sternly, ushering Alexander towards the entrance of the tent in which John already sleeps, “I will ascetr– ascert– I will see if he needs assistance.”

Alexander glares up at him for a short moment, before slumping in defeat, fatigue effectively pulling at him. “Alright, fine. But promise me–”

“I promise to wake you should he need his _petit lion_ ,” Lafayette teases, watching with rapt interest how Alexander’s cheeks darken, visible even in the moon-lit night, “Now off you go. I will join you later.”

In a show of affection, he takes Alexander’s hand and kisses his knuckles sweetly, earning an affectionate groan of exasperation and a grumbled ‘goodnight’.

“ _Bonne nuit,_ my little lion,” Lafayette whispers after him, waiting a few more dazed seconds after the flap of their tent has closed behind Alexander to turn and walk the minute it takes him to reach the General’s tent.

He doesn’t bother with announcing his presence outside the tent, lifting the flap carefully and letting it fall shut behind him. He observes the scene before him: A couple candles illuminate the desk behind which Washington sits, forehead cradled in his right hand, supported by his elbow. His entire posture is tense, eyes burning a hole through whatever paper has earned his ire. He notes that his silk sash and sword have been discarded to the side, but otherwise the man remains in full uniform.

Any other soldier –except Hamilton, as it is– wouldn’t dare engage the General when he holds himself ready to snap. But Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette is no ordinary soldier. His bon-entendre with General Washington is nowhere close to being ordinary either, something Lafayette prides himself in.

Thus, he clears his throat to get the attention of the Commander of the Continental Army.

Washington’s head snaps up, and for a moment, his eyes show a promise of consequences for whoever is disturbing him at this hour. But just as quickly as the dark look appears, it vanishes to be replaced with recognition and clear affection. If Lafayette ever needed confirmation that his presence is welcome, the relief washing over the General’s face would be sufficient proof.

“Major General Lafayette,” Washington greets him lightly, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“ _Mon Général,_ you are still awake,” Lafayette addresses, taking a few casual steps forward with a friendly smile. He is equally surprised and unsurprised to find Washington awake at this hour, as it is not unusual for the older man to be kept awake by the pressures of war, but earlier this evening had also encouraged prompt retirement for the night. When Lafayette had come to drag Alexander away from the unending pile of unanswered letters, Washington had just been exiting his tent with a quick command to get Hamilton out of it so that they may both sleep.

“I find myself restless tonight, and had hoped a long, calming walk would help,” Washington sighs, and sits up straighter in his chair. His lips quirk up in amusement, “Imagine my surprise when I returned, unsuccessful, only to find my tent blessedly devoid of my chief aide-de-camp.”

Knowing that Alexander can be an aggravating handful when it comes to discussing his sleep-schedule, especially when one might already find themselves tired, Lafayette nods in understanding, “Ah, yes, Monsieur Hamilton has been convinced to rest.”

“How did you manage such a feat?” Washington shakes his head in astoundment, “That boy is as stubborn as he is brilliant.”

Indeed, although Washington occasionally complains about Alexander’s less-than-healthy habits, Lafayette knows the man cares deeply about his precocious soldier, more worried than annoyed at his antics.

Lafayette decides that he should perhaps not let the General be privy to the methods with which he persuaded Alexander to follow orders; by pounding him into euphoric exhaustion.

“We have also taken a walk,” he answers simply, as it is not a lie. He pauses, considering. “But perhaps this strategy is best suited for those of us who have been ignoring sleep for far longer than humanly possible.”

Washington laughs softly, the sound music to Lafayette’s ears. But when his face shifts back into a frown, the Marquis contours the large desk to stand behind the General. The trust between them allows for no inspection of Lafayette’s movements, not even as he sets his hands on top of Washington’s shoulders. He begins applying careful pressure, the gesture not unusual, almost a habit when it is only the two of them like this.

“What has you so restless tonight, _mon cher Général?_ ” The question is gently curious, soft-spoken, even as he peers down at the map that they’d discussed at length earlier that day. It shows where the troops will split come morning. This is where he is to be separated from his Alexander and General for the upcoming weeks.

Washington sighs again, relaxing into the familiar kneading granted to his shoulders. “Will you me believe were I to say that the animals of the wild have been keeping me wakeful?”

Lafayette smiles to himself, because he’s sure some of his and Alexander’s sounds–particularly Alexander’s keens– could have come across as animalistic.

“Not entirely,” he answers, his tone playful, “But I will accept it should you not wish to discuss what troubles you so.”

There’s a moment of silence, during which Lafayette continues to gently ease the tension from the General’s shoulders as well as his neck. He can’t remember the exact moment when he had begun to silently offer his services as a masseuse to the General, but not once have his hands been refused, much to his joy.

In France, the people are much more tactile than they are here in America, something he’d learned fairly quickly. However, as his name became a common mention, so did his quirks and tactile habits. A clasped hand there, an embrace here, a kiss to each cheek bestowed to those who gained his respect. A knuckle kiss for those he holds close to his heart. While most soldiers with whom he is well-acquainted have accepted his foreign ways with amusement and even appreciation, some have protested with embarrassed anger. Mostly higher ranked soldiers. But not George Washington. The General has been most receptive to his numerous demonstrations of affection, a fact Lafayette is eternally thankful for, as he has difficulty imagining not being able to express his awe and respect of the man. And if there is a different kind of affection underneath it all, similar to the one he holds for Alexander, well, the General doesn’t need to know just yet.

Washington sighs again, this time perhaps in an appreciative way as well as tiredness. “My dear Marquis, I find myself, perhaps unreasonably so, mulling over your upcoming leave.”

“Ah. _Je vois_. Is there a reason in particular?” He frowns, even as he keeps his tone light. This will not be the first time he is sent away on a mission or to assist other generals with their troops.

“The British are restless,” Washington starts, his voice taking a sombre tone, “Our scouts have reported too much movement, too fast, and too unpredictable. I fear another confrontation is imminent, and I am unsure of our odds on the outcome.”

Lafayette knows this, they’ve discussed it together with the other generals, but he lets Washington talk. “Our strategy to separate, while sound, unsettles me. I would...” He pauses there, clearly hesitant to voice his complete thoughts, “I would much rather have you by my side when the time comes that we must fight.”

_Safe_ , remains unspoken but understood.

Lafayette’s hands fall to his side as Washington stands. He turns to face Lafayette, who tilts his head with raised eyebrows, touched at the worry the General exhibits for him. They share a look, another silent permission for Lafayette to once again indulge in a habit he’s built since keeping Washington company in his tent too often late at night.

“As would I.” He raises his hands again, this time settling them on the lapels of Washington’s regal coat, beginning to shine the buttons with his sleeve with practiced ease. “You and our _petit lion_ are making this mission more difficult. I will return in two weeks’ time, perhaps three, no longer. I will be safe.”

As he glances up from his honored task –which at times he still cannot believe he is allowed to pursue– he notices with dismay that Washington’s expression remains downcast. Lafayette sighs, continuing to give the rest of the twenty-two buttons a polishing rub in thoughtful silence.

When he is satisfied that the coat may now properly represent the General, he pushes the coat off the older man’s shoulders, setting it down carefully on the chair. He then offers a small but light-hearted smile as he moves to undo Washington’s pristine cravat.

“As with any game of chess,” the Frenchman starts slowly, “The pieces must sometimes part before rejoining _, oui?_ The king cannot keep us all at his side at all times if he wishes to win.”

Washington appears to take in his words, his comparison. He raises an elegant eyebrow. “You would crown me king, dear Marquis?”

Lafayette chuckles, pulling the cravat free and setting it atop the coat with equal care. “ _Bien sûr!_ ” He then starts on unbuttoning the waistcoat, idly wondering how the man manages to keep it wrinkle-free at the end of the day. “ _Dès lors_ , it is clear that John Laurens would be a tower– a rook. Headstrong, his attacks often unexpected but nonetheless devastating. And our Alexander, master strategist, deadly accurate and loyal to perfection, he would be a... what is the term for the _cavalier_ , ah, the horse?”

Once the waistcoat is opened to reveal the white cotton undershirt, he guides Washington to sit on the edge of his cot –humble while larger than most and off the floor. He then blows out one of the candles, grabs the other to set it on the crate serving as a nightstand, taking a chair along with him.

Lafayette still cannot seem to find the proper word, grunting in frustration. While his English has marginally improved since his first steps on this land, he knows he has yet to master the language.

“A knight,” Washington supplies eventually, still voicing no complaints at being guided around in his own tent by the caring Frenchman. After all, it is neither the first nor tenth time he has engaged in such private moments with his close friend and confidant.

Lafayette quirks a disbelieving eyebrow as he sits on the chair and lifts the General’s left leg onto his lap, huffing proudly. “No no, you attempt to fool me, _mon Général_. I know what night is. It is the opposite of day.”

Washington laughs, mindfully tamed as not to wake neighboring tents, but full and bright nonetheless. It sets off a joyous spark in Lafayette’s chest once more, smiling to himself as he smoothly removes the General’s boot.

“My dear Gilbert,” the older man says fondly, his pronunciation of the name improving from use, the ‘G’ soft-spoken, and ‘t’ silent, “Add a silent ‘k’ to the word you know, and watch it turn into a chess piece, or a noble equestrian.”

The Frenchman frowns in slight confusion, quiet as he makes the bemusing addition to his vocabulary. “Ah, _mais oui!_ ”

He swiftly switches up Washington’s legs and unboots the other leather piece, nodding in comprehension, “Knight, with a ‘k’! I understand now.” He tuts. “However, I will never understand why the English language has such need for so many silent letters.”

His self-appointed tasks done, he sheds his own blue coat and boots before standing, under Washington’s watchful gaze, the man now clearly less tense than mere minutes earlier.

“And I believe you know my stance on French,” he counters amusedly.

Lafayette stretches his arms back for a couple seconds, and joins the General on the bed. “I will have you learn it one way or another.”

They lay down side by side, arms folded under their heads, as though they were two youths lazing on the soft grass of the peaceful countryside to admire the stars. Washington chuckles softly, “Your insistence is admirable, if futile.”

“I would wist– witstan– _Sacrebleu,_ ” At Lafayette’s struggle, Washington turns his head to look at the Frenchman, silently encouraging. Lafayette persists, “ _With...stand._ I would withstand every torturous effort if it meant I could finally share my tongue with you.”

Lafayette tilts his head, pleased at his success with the tongue-twisting word, expecting to meet Washington’s proud eyes with his own. Instead, he is met with dilated pupils along with slightly reddened cheeks.

Alright, so perhaps Lafayette chose his words somewhat with purpose. He is not blind. He knows the signs of attraction, he’s seen them on the General countless number of times while in his presence, as well as Alexander’s. He wonders were it not for the condemnable taboo of intimacy between men here in America, would Washington take it upon himself to voluntarily make his attraction known. But then, there is also the problem of rank disparity, and the General is nothing if not hard-set on not abusing the power invested in him. Although, during moments like the one they are currently sharing, Lafayette is not his soldier to command, not his inferior; just a man in awe, a man aware of how deep his love runs for the other.

Not to mention that, in a puritanism culture such as the one in this country, having multiple lovers must surely be an... unusual prospect, to say the least.

Lafayette has been conscious for some time now of the fact that his heart equally belongs to Alexander and Washington. It doesn’t shock him, as he’s always known himself to love grandly. After all, the more love there is in the world, the more beautiful the world becomes. If only the aide-de-camp and the General could understand this as well. But Lafayette is a patient man, and moreover, he is immensely grateful that Alexander has no moral qualms about expressing his own affections for him. But when it comes to their General, Alexander is visibly torn between keeping him at arm’s length, or embracing the caring yet unspoken invitation. Indeed, Alexander’s lack of parental figure causes quite the conundrum for the orphaned immigrant.

However, the Marquis is strong in his belief that both Alexander and Washington will come to realize their mutual affection for each other –although perhaps with a little push.

A small part of his mind expresses self-doubt at the thought. What if while finding each other, both his heart’s desires cast him aside? What if his love is not mirrored other than by physical attraction? What if he is only a substitute, a temporary satisfaction in Alexander’s eyes, a passing fancy in Washington’s?

“Who would you be, then?” The General’s voice thankfully interrupts his increasingly bleak musings. He has gone back to examining the roof of his tent.

“Mhm?” Lafayette blinks a few times rapidly, realizing he is still staring at the handsome face only a foot and a half away from his.

“In a game of chess, which piece would you embody?”

“Ah. I should think I am the queen,” he answers casually, as though the answer is one without the need for deep thinking.

Washington hums approvingly, “The wild and unstoppable force.”

“ _Oui_.” He shifts his gaze to inspect at a loose thread hanging from the tent ceiling, “But also, I can defend my king from all sides, and no matter how far I go, I will always return to him in a heartbeat.”

Silence. A quiet rustle of sheets, followed by the feeling of being watched closely. “Or perhaps I am the fool, often jumping into situations without thinking of consequences.”

Another silence, during which Lafayette turns his entire body towards Washington, one leg brushing against the older man’s calf. The General’s eyes briefly dart down towards it, while Lafayette takes the opportunity to glance longingly at the pair of lips, wishing he could discover whether they match the softness of the man’s private nature, or the firmness he applies to his commands.

When their eyes meet again, something of no-name passes between them. A question, perhaps, an indecisiveness, a withheld invitation. A choice refrained for the sake of the nameless.

“No,” Washington says softly, “I believe the title of queen suits you best. So long as you promise to come back to my side.”  
Lafayette suddenly feels the melancholy of the upcoming separation, no matter how meaningless it is time-wise, no matter how he’s reassured both Alexander and Washington of that fact.

“I promise, _mon coeur partiel_.”

Washington gives no sign of understanding the odd term –one Lafayette had yet to use– but if he does, he refrains from commenting. He doesn’t comment either nor protests when Lafayette slowly reaches between them to take a hold of his large hand, bringing it to his lips to brush a kiss across the firm knuckles before gently intertwining their fingers. Whether the gesture is interpreted as yet another French quirk of his or something else, Lafayette decides he won’t correct him in either assumption.

Washington sighs, giving the Frenchman’s hand one firm squeeze before letting it go and sitting up. Lafayette watches him, his hand both tingling and feeling cold. He fists the sheet to settle the sensation.

Washington reaches to the side for the crate, picking up a book adorned with one of Lafayette’s used uniform tassels attached to a thin metal rod in the guise of a bookmarker. It gives _Don Quixote_ a certain elegant flare to match the story, according to the Frenchman.

“Shall I read to you tonight, my dear Marquis?”

Lafayette grins, his melancholy and heartache over two of the most important people in his life momentarily forgotten in lieu of yet another ritual of theirs. “Always an honor, _votre Excellence._ ”

Lafayette ends up falling asleep first, once again not an unusual occurrence, head nestled comfortably on Washington’s thigh and long legs hanging off the edge of the bed. The proud and venerated General follows soon after, one hand lying peacefully atop his soldier’s heartbeat.

Summer nights are quiet. Whereas most soldiers dream of their awaiting wives back home or a faceless woman to court and marry, three soldiers, each of different rank, dream of each other.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translations:  
>  Mon petit lion: My little lion  
>  oui: yes  
>  récompense: reward  
>  Ton anglais te fait défaut: Your English is failing you  
>  mon chou: my sweet  
>  poétique, n’est-ce pas: poetic, isn’t it?  
>  pour ton anniversaire: for/on your birthday  
>  non: no  
>  mon lion rugissant: my roaring lion  
>  notre Général: our General  
>  Sinon, comment aurais-je pu te laisser ma marque: Otherwise, how would I have left you my mark?  
>  mon cher: my dear  
>  ton propre nom: your own name  
>  maintenant: now  
>  Bonne nuit: Good night  
>  Je vois: I see  
>  Bien sûr: Of course  
>  Dès lors: Therefore  
>  cavalier: knight  
>  mais oui: but of course  
>  Sacrebleu: Damnit  
>  mon coeur partiel: my partial heart (half of my heart)  
>  Votre Excellence: Your Excellency


	2. Shaping The Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I hope you liked the first chapter. 
> 
> Here's Chapter 2! It will include a few time jumps, so bear with the back and forth way of the plot ;)

* * *

_Previously:_

_Summer nights are quiet. Whereas most soldiers dream of their awaiting wives back home or a faceless woman to court and marry, three soldiers, each of different rank, dream of each other._

* * *

_Six months earlier_

“For the last time, Gilbert, your hair looks as immaculate as ever,” Alexander sighs with an amused shake of his head, “Now will you stop fretting like a blushing maiden?”

Lafayette mutters a colorful word under his breath, continuing to pat his white wig down anyway, “Perhaps I should make the _tresse_ again? How about a _queue de poisson?_ Or a–”

Alexander laughs, stopping in front of a large door, and placing a hand flat on Lafayette’s chest to halt him. “No need to act so distressed, my friend,” he soothes, “The General will care more for your skills and influence than for your appearance.”

Lafayette takes a deep, calming breath. “Yes, of course. You are right. _Mais..._ ” he trails off for a moment, looking at the door with lingering nervousness, “I have dreamed of meeting _le_ great _Général_ even before, ah, getting on the board of the ship from France. I wish to make a perfect _première impression._ ”

Alexander smiles softly, letting his hand fall down to take Lafayette’s to give it an encouraging squeeze. “I have no doubts you will. I’ve already assured him you’re not just some French aristocrat looking for his moment of fame and glory. All you need to do is blow him away with your...” he gestures vaguely up and down, “...self.”

Alexander winks at him and releases his hand. He is satisfied when Lafayette seems to relax slightly. The Frenchman clears his throat, straightens his blue coat, and nods sharply, as if preparing to charge into battle.

“Thank you, Alexander,” he says softly, casting a glance around them to make sure they are alone before bending down to peck the smaller man’s lips, “Now, I am truly ready.”

Alexander chuckles at the Marquis’ antics, a gentle blush appearing on his cheeks nonetheless. He turns back around, and knocks on the door twice, waiting to hear the muffled answer before opening it and stepping through.

Lafayette follows closely, immediately standing at attention as soon as he closes the door behind them. The mere sight of George Washington as he stands from his chair behind an immaculately cluttered desk is enough to throw any sense of calm and composure out the window. He swallows thickly.

He hadn’t been lying to Alexander when he had said he’d been dreaming of this moment for months. He had been overjoyed when Alexander had written him a letter informing him of his new position as aide-de-camp to General Washington as of a couple weeks ago, and was now requesting Lafayette’s presence for a meeting with the man he viewed as a legend, as his inspiration to return to France when the time came to follow the Colonies’ movement of revolution.

Overjoyed, but nerve-wrecked with agitation.

He barely registers Alexander’s presentation, heartbeat loud in his ears. He has the good sense to salute, at the very least, but anything else Alexander had instructed to do and say becomes impossible to remember as the General walks towards him.

The man is undeniably grandiose, the force of his presence palpable in the room. His broad stature and handsome features do nothing to soothe the fires of excitement travelling up and down Lafayette’s veins.

Lafayette’s feet carry him forward without thinking, meeting the intimidating man halfway, and before he can recall American social norms, he is standing right in front of the magnificent General, a hand settling on his strong shoulder, and kissing both his clean-shaven cheeks in quick but graceful succession.

From the corner of his eye, Lafayette can see Alexander’s jaw slacken, his stunt expression, and only then does his life of propriety training and more recently his friend’s advice rush back into his head:

 _‘Remember_ _,_ _Gilbert, just a handshake. The General isn’t too fond of physical contact.’_

Lafayette almost squeaks in horror at the memory of the warning he’d just blatantly ignored, feeling his cheeks heat up in embarrassment and apprehension.

“ _Votre Excellence_ ,” he nearly stammers out, deciding not to emphasize on his faux-pas, “It is very great– that is, it is truly an honor to make your acqu _ain_ tance,” he butchers the last word as his accent thickens, producing a sound English-speakers can’t quite mimic.

“ _Seigneur..._ ”

Lafayette ignores Alexander’s muttered blaspheme, choosing instead to pray for the floor to open and swallow him up, hopefully to send him back to France so that he may give his pride a proper burial.

He blinks, meeting Washington’s scrutinizing eyes. There is a heavy moment of silence, during which the nervous Frenchman barely dares to breathe.

A dozen excuses battle for the spotlight on his tongue, while a dozen scenarios, all of which result in his immediate exile from the room, rummage through his mind. He curses himself for managing to soil this meeting within the first ten seconds of it, probably ruining his reputation in the eyes of the venerated General as well as Alexander’s.

“ _Mon Général,_ ” Lafayette attempts again, desperate to rectify the situation, “I am aware that I am not the first French _aristocrate_ to, how you say... stroll into your war. I am aware that many seek glory in battle, and have no true belief in your cause nor valuable contribution to offer with the exception of their titles.” He pauses to breathe, feeling more composed already. “I do not come here to demand a position for the purpose of leading. I do not come here to teach your soldiers the ways of the Old Land, but I will should you wish it. I come here to learn, to understand, and to become a part of the movement that will form your new nation. And perhaps, one day, I will return to France and bring the same freedom to my people.”

The silence that follows doesn’t feel as stifling as the one prior his improvised speech –he had had another carefully planned, but it had vanished with his initial butchered introduction. No matter, the sentiment remained the same, and his declaration came unfiltered from his heart.

Still, he wonders if his sentiments are appropriate at all, especially in the face of a man such as George Washington. Given that Alexander has said nothing, has not interrupted him, both reassures and disquiets him. Perhaps his friend is in shock at Lafayette’s boldness. It would not be the first time.

Then, as would an angel descend upon this Earth to bless them with its presence, Washington’s lips quirk up, and he inclines his head in a way that assures Lafayette that his words were well-received.

“Marquis de Lafayette,” the General starts, voice stern yet welcoming –more heart-soothing than any angel could ever hope to match even with its songs of kingdom come–, “The honor is all mine.”

* * *

_Today_

“I can’t believe you decided to spend your last night with Washington instead of with us,” Alexander complains half-heartedly as he, Lafayette, and John eat breakfast in front of their tent with the rising sun, “your own tentmates!”

“Now now, _mon cher Alexandre_ , let us be fair,” Lafayette starts playfully, “I did spend half of the night with you as well. And, had I not prevented you from joining _le Général_ to work, you would have done the same.”

“He’s got a point there, Alex,” John interjects, “Besides, you wouldn’t deny Marie his vice on his birthday, would you?”

“Why must you continue to call me such,” Lafayette grumbles, flicking John’s ear.

“But nevertheless,” John continues, undeterred, “I feel compelled to point out both of your lack of decency. Honestly, I felt quite lonely as I fell asleep.” Despite his words, his tone indicates there is no true resentment on his part.

Lafayette nonetheless gasps exaggeratedly, lunging forward to grab John’s smiling face and kissing his cheek, “My apology, _ma belle tortue_ , we have been thoughtless. Forgive us.”

“I believe the sore point on my backside is apology enough,” Alexander mutters, making a point to glare at Lafayette, who grins unapologetically.

“So long as neither of you feels the need to share the details, I will find it in my heart to grant forgiveness.”

Lafayette laughs loudly at John’s statement, once again glad of his and Alexander’s decision to confide in their friend –even though alcohol had played a large part in that matter. But John, despite his initial shock and the instilled distaste for men like them from his upbringing, had taken the news in stride, stating that in a way, he had already known, and that he’d never exactly understood the hatred aimed at such relations. Although when Lafayette had suggested for him to join them, both John and Alexander had swatted his head.

“Back to the matter at hand. Gilbert,” Alexander pauses for dramatics, long enough to take a sip of his coffee, “Did you and the General... partake in your rituals again?”

Alexander had walked in on Lafayette unbuttoning the General’s waistcoat once, a few months back, and needless to say he had been confused. Shocked. Unsure whether to feel betrayal at first. But Lafayette had been undisturbed to be seen –as opposed to the General himself– and later had calmly explained that these rituals helped to settle the stressed and overworked General. He had suggested to Alexander that he could help as well, which had earned him a charmingly embarrassed flush and a muttered ‘ _sottises’._

Naturally, John had been put wise as well, to his discretion, not that the General is aware of exactly how privy two of his aides-de-camp are to his and Lafayette’s tranquil moments.

While the chief aide-de-camp has never complained about these rituals, even inquiring about them in detail, occasionally asking of their effectiveness on particular evenings, there’s an edge to Alexander’s query this time. It doesn’t sound like possessiveness nor bitter jealousy. It amuses Lafayette, who smirks.

“But of course,” he purrs, “He was very grateful for my expert hands. And I would thank you to notice his buttons _tout brilliants_.”

John snorts into his cup while Alexander’s eyes glaze over for a short moment, before snapping back to attention, adopting a playful tone of his own, “Should I be jealous, my dear Marquis?”

Lafayette shrugs, pretending to think, “Of the proximity _le Général_ allows me? Yes. But I am sure he would gladly grant you the same, you need only to ask prettily.”

At that, John outright laughs. “ _Nicely_ , Lafayette, not prettily. Although...” He watches the gentle blush now present on Alexander’s cheeks.

“ _Je sais ce que j’ai dit,_ ” Lafayette shoots back with a smug grin, only causing John to cackle louder and Alexander to blush a shade darker. The latter then stands, waving his two companions off gruffly.

“Keep laughing. At least I know I’ll earn my rank through actual effort and glorious victories.”

His exit is followed by the sound of John and Lafayette clapping each other on the shoulder while oohing and chortling. Alexander smiles to himself on the way to the General’s tent for his morning salute.

* * *

After a few more delightful farewell kisses by the storage space of the camp following the morning reports, well-hidden by piles of large crates, Lafayette and Alexander make their way to the main entry of the camp, where Sullivan’s troops are already mounting their horses, their departure imminent.

General Washington stands there as well, discussing with General Sullivan, a map stretched between the two men. John is there as well. As Lafayette and Alexander near their position, Washington nods with finality, rolls up the map and shakes Sullivan’s hand, bidding him safe travels. As he turns to regard his incoming soldiers, he shoots them an indecipherable look, followed by a nod of greeting. Both younger men salute dutifully.

Sullivan calls for his troops to ready for the march. Lafayette feels the odd melancholy return, but pushes it aside, casting it as empathy for Alexander’s sentiments and Washington’s overall apprehension for the possibility of an upcoming battle.

He takes a step to stand in front of John, clasping his shoulder warmly and leaning in to kiss both his cheeks, smiling. He does the same with Alexander, the smile becoming all the more tender and the touch lingering. No words need to be exchanged for both men to let the other know what they’ve told each other many times over today.

Lafayette moves to give the same treatment to Washington, as he’d done every time he had been required to accompany on missions in different areas. Alexander and John brace themselves for whichever parting term of endearment the Frenchman has chosen to bestow upon the General this time. It’s become a game between the two of them; the first to give any indication of succumbing to Lafayette’s absurdity loses.

“ _Au revoir, ô muse bien-aimée des étoiles enchantées._ ”

John loses this match with a snort-turned-cough.

Lafayette leans forward, raising his hand to set it on its intended place on the General’s shoulder, only to have it clasped firmly a third of its way up, his body halted in its movement.

Lafayette blinks, confused as he looks down at his and Washington’s joined hands. Formal. Distant. The General shakes his hand once before releasing it. Not at all intimate as they had been the previous night.

“Until your safe return, Major General.”

For anyone watching, it is impossible to miss the look of hurt that flashes through Lafayette’s eyes. His quick glance at Alexander and John serves to mirror his puzzlement. For once, his words and ability to insert humor in any situation fail him. He can only whisper a soft, unmistakably disappointed ‘ _oh_ ’, even as the General is already stepping back to exchange a salute with Sullivan and his troop.

Lafayette, still in a shocked state, mounts his horse swiftly, saluting instinctively but frowning at his saddle.

They depart.

Sullivan and his frontal troop are stricken by the odd silence, the soldiers used to the boisterous Frenchman’s mellifluous voice and contagious laughter. It seems however that, for once, the Marquis has been robbed of his usual uplifting mood.

* * *

_Six days later_

They had been outgunned.

Casualties were to be expected when in war.

War has a tendency to take, and take, and take. Sons, brothers, and fathers ripped away from the mourning family. Husbands, lovers, and soulmates stolen from the arms of the broken-hearted.

Friends, allies, and comrades taken from those who need them the most.

They had been outmanned.

To understand war is to understand one and another’s own mortality.

The wretched number of wounded and dead Continental soldiers had been foreseen the very moment the British troops had appeared within eyesight.

They had been outnumbered.

_‘The day you face grief on the battlefield is the day you truly understand war.’_

Whether the young and brash soldiers decide to listen to the wise and grief-hardened veterans the first time they are told of the harsh reality of inevitable loss, time eventually forces them to.

It is, however, in their best interest to prepare themselves for the unimaginable.

They had been outplanned.

They had been unprepared.

They had been unwilling to understand.

Alexander Hamilton had felt grief after his father abandoned their family. He had felt grief after his cousin took his own life. He had felt grief after the hurricane destroyed his town.

He still feels grief for his mother.

But until today, Alexander Hamilton had never truly understood war.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translations:  
>  tresse: braid  
>  queue de poisson: fishtail  
>  Mais: But  
>  première impression: first impression  
>  Seigneur: Lord  
>  aristocrate: aristocrat  
>  ma belle tortue: my pretty turtle  
>  sottises: nonsense  
>  tout brilliants: all shiny  
>  Je sais ce que j’ai dit: I know what I said  
>  Au revoir, ô muse bien-aimée des étoiles enchantées: Goodbye, O my beloved muse of the enchanted stars


	3. The Rivalry of Time and War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello hello!
> 
> Here's chapter 3! I apologize in advance for any possible format snafus, I did not sleep much last night. Did anyone else catch the Hamilton Original Cast Live Q&A?? It was awesome! ...but due to timezones, I now have LMM-worthy bags under my eyes. Ha! 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter! The plot is moving along, I promise -albeit slowly!  
> Don't hesitate to leave a comment!

* * *

_Previously:_

_Alexander Hamilton had felt grief after his father abandoned their family. He had felt grief after his cousin took his own life. He had felt grief after the hurricane destroyed his town._

_He still feels grief for his mother._

_But until today, Alexander Hamilton had never truly understood war._

* * *

_Twenty-four hours earlier_

Alexander Hamilton has had the most unsettling consecutive five days, starting from the moment Washington dismissed Lafayette in a cold, disquieting way. As soon as Sullivan’s troops had started their march, Washington had called Alexander and John to attention, beckoning them to follow him with a single crook of his index and middle finger. Both aides had scrambled to follow, still in shock from the unusual display they had witnessed.

They had helped Washington pack his correspondence, organizing them by order of priority and importance. During the couple hours it took them to pack up the rest of the camp and ready Washington’s troops, Alexander had been on the precipice of bursting with frustration. Indeed, noticeable to any soldier with eyes, Washington had directed his unexpected ire towards Alexander, who had done his very best not to snap right back, for the sake of all present –and his own hide.

Once they had settled down camp for the night farther into Philadelphia –after a tense ride alongside the solemnly brooding General– the evening had only gotten worse for Alexander, who had simply attempted to suggest a different paragraph order to possibly improve their chances of receiving what they needed from Congress. Alexander had been dismissed with a warning.

Even John had had a difficult time cheering him up through the chief aide’s ranting. He had voiced his opinion on the matter, stating that the problem surely lies with the General, judging by the way he had also acted with Lafayette. Assuredly, the cause must be an external factor, and not his favorite aides. Alexander had grunted his acquiescence, but had yet to be fully convinced.

The second day had gone by in the same strained fashion, so much that by dinner time, John had deduced that Alexander’s silence on the matter had stemmed more from being confused and upset than thoughtless and angry. John had patted his shoulder and told him it couldn’t get worse the next day.

And yet, the following two days were met with no amelioration of the nameless situation. While Washington had stopped snapping at Alexander for the barest hair out of place, he had instead gone out of his way to send the aide away on a task, anywhere but in his tent. They had only exchanged a handful of sentences throughout these two days, much to Alexander’s quietly fuming indignation.

On the fifth day, the atmosphere had suddenly changed as the sun rose. Washington had called Alexander back to his side, and they had spent the day working together, without a single incident nor mention of the previous days’ abnormalities, but nevertheless with a palpable tension of unspoken words.

And so, Alexander spends the following day between his portable desk and the Generals’ table, taking notes and passing them along to other ranking officers. It is evident that the idea of an upcoming battle has unnerved most commanders, especially as their scouts’ reports have been mostly inconclusive.

The General is once again cordial with his chief aide-de-camp throughout the day.

By the time night falls, most soldiers have either retired to bed or are lingering by the campfires. Alexander is among the latter, sat on the ground, leaning against John with his portable desk propped up in his lap. He is writing a letter to Lafayette, having had neither the time nor inspiration to do so these past few days, much to his dismay. He hums to himself as he writes down a series of rhymes that had been trotting around in his mind without much sense until now, bent on giving his dear Marquis a lovely blush and even perhaps the need to excuse himself from whatever company he may be in. He chooses his words both with careful intent and uncensured meaning, creating an odd mix of near senseless, smitten rambles, nevertheless with clear declarations of affection. For the sake of privacy however, he writes it all in French. Behind him, John reads over his shoulder, making gagging noises.

“For all that is holy, Alex,” John groans, “Here, give me that.”

“Hey!” Alexander squawks as John suddenly grabs his letter. He twists around, attempting to reclaim what is his, nearly tipping over the inkwell that sits dangerously close to his boots. In the struggle, John succeeds in also stealing Alexander’s quill. Under the other soldiers’ amused expressions, John manages to hold Alexander down, half-draped over the smaller man’s back with his prizes in hand.

“Get off of me, Laurens, I swear–”

“Relax, I’m just writing down my own greeting,” John declares with a mischievous chuckle, “You wouldn’t deny me this small favor, would you? Now, what to write, what to write.” He grins, applying his full weight to keep Alexander down. “Mhm. _‘Vous deux_ _êtes si mielleux, je ferai des cauchemars._ _A Dieu, ta belle tortue_ _’._ How’s that?”

Alexander curses and continues to struggle as John snickers and quickly scribbles his addendum into the letter. Finally, the Caribbean man is victorious in bucking off his South Carolinian friend, sending him rolling off. With a shark-like grin, Alexander pounces on the other man, and from there ensues a childish squabble, cheered on by the witnessing soldiers.

The sight of the two aides quarrelling like unruly children is not an unusual one, but it never ceases to amuse those fortunate enough to witness it. Soldiers will find entertainment wherever they can, after all.

The letter eventually flies out of John’s hand and lands in front of a standing pair of boots, which, judging by the sudden silence of the surrounding soldiers, can only belong to one man.

Both aides freeze simultaneously, and peer up from their entangled positions on the ground.

To Alexander’s horror, Washington crouches down slowly, picks up the letter, and raises himself back to his full, imposing stature. His expression reveals nothing as he brushes the dust from the creased paper.

“Would either one of you care to explain what exactly is it I am looking at,” Washington’s tone is flat as his gaze travels up and down his Lieutenant Colonels’ puerile arrangement of limbs. But to those who have become familiar with his tones, there is a definite hint of amusement.

Alexander and John scramble to stand, as fast as possible and, unfortunately by consequence, just as gracelessly. Their salute is laughable at best.

“Sir, we were just–”

“He started it–”

John and Alexander, respectively, speak over the other, cutting themselves short to glance at the other, an amused quirk pulling at their lips despite the agitating fact that their commander is currently holding Alexander’s somewhat incriminating letter –who silently thanks Providence for his decision to have written it in French.

Their attention is quickly regained by the sighing General, who briefly casts his eyes down at the letter, examining.

“This is your letter, Hamilton?”

“Yes, Sir, if I could just–” He takes half a step forward to reach for the piece of paper, but Washington pulls it swiftly just out of reach.

He gestures to John, “Laurens, you are dismissed.” He turns as the freckled man salutes him with a respectful ‘yes, Sir’, already beginning to walk away, “Hamilton, with me.”

Whatever might have been Alexander’s protest, it is censored by John pinching his arm in warning, sighing and muttering a disgruntled ‘yessir’ instead and following his commander.

Alexander leaves his belongings behind for John to watch over, and proceeds to trail behind Washington, shoulders hunched tensely, unsure whether this evening will end in another shouting match despite today and yesterday’s civil exchanges. After all, he still remains nonplussed to some extent about the previous days’ unjust treatments.

Washington holds the flap to his tent open for Alexander to walk through, closing it behind them. Alexander goes to stand in the middle of the tent, setting his posture at attention; legs straight but knees unlocked, chest and hips at level, shoulders squared, and hands clasped behind his back. His chin, however, remains unaligned, tilted, expressing his wariness.

Any other wise soldier would have quietly waited for their commanding officer to talk first. But Alexander is determined to break the military code at every turn.

“Have I done something wrong, Sir?” His own question brings him back to their first meeting over six months prior, when he had been summoned by the then-legendary General Washington. His nerves had been wracked as he had stepped inside that room, and yet he had still quickly permitted himself the audacity to talk back to the imposing commander whose temper was well-known to become fiery even with his exemplary self-discipline.

“Apart from that incredibly childish display out there?” Washington asks in a rhetorical manner, moving to stand in front of Hamilton, levelling him with a brief look of exhausted disbelief.

“ _Sir–_ ” Washington cuts him off with a wave of his hand.

“At ease, son,” he sighs, clearly unwilling to veer into an argument on the matter, “You are not on duty.”

While Alexander visibly relaxes his body, his jaw remains clenched, visibly biting down his displeasure at the sobriquet. But before he can further question his presence here, Washington hands him his letter back before rounding his desk and sitting down at his chair, his posture heavy and tired with today’s work.

“I take it you are writing a missive to the Marquis?” Alexander’s eyes search Washington’s expression for an inkling as to what the General is thinking, giving that this is the first time he’s heard him mention Lafayette since the Frenchman’s departure. He dismisses the possibility of his commanding officer having understood a word from his glance at the letter, seeing as there have been no signs of an impending dressing down or worse so far.

“Yessir,” he answers dutifully, “I intend to send it tomorrow morning with the other correspondences to Generals Sullivan and Stirling.”

Washington hums in acknowledgement, seemingly in thought for a couple seconds as he stares at Alexander. He then gestures for his aide to take a seat in his usual chair across the desk. Alexander does so cautiously, his own eyes never leaving the General’s, perhaps in challenge for him to make a comment about his friend –his lover, in private.

“Then by all means, I wouldn’t want you to send an unfinished greeting.”

Had he been left standing, this would have sounded like a clear dismissal. But Alexander would be foolish to take his leave now, to refuse the invitation to finish the letter here and by consequence to keep the General company.

Now, this isn’t an unusual occurrence by any means. Alexander has spent more than his fair share of free time at the General’s side, whether Lafayette had been there as well or not. Granted, he doesn’t give himself the same liberties as the Frenchman’s –whether or not he wants to is irrelevant– but nevertheless he generally finds himself in a state of ease and peace while in Washington’s presence.

Therefore, he decides to remain, accepting the invitation by picking up a quill from the desk. Moreover, it becomes clearer by the second that the General has something he wishes to either say or ask him.

“Thank you, Sir.”

A few minutes tick by, during which Alexander adds a paragraph below John’s hurried writing, in French still, explaining the situation that had arisen earlier. Then, after clearing his throat uncomfortably and willing his cheeks to remain normal-blooded, he finishes his previous train of thought that had sent John into a teasing rant in the first place.

It feels odd to write such indecent –lovestruck would perhaps fit the description more aptly– sentences in the presence of a commanding officer, especially when said commander is watching him like a hawk. Odder still, it sends a rush of unexpected heat down to Alexander’s belly, and even fuels some of his choice of words. He thinks fondly of how Lafayette would react to the fact that Alexander wrote him such a letter while in Washington’s presence. He would probably be highly entertained. Knowing the Frenchman, maybe even excited.

Indeed, Alexander has no doubt that behind Lafayette’s numerous jokes about the merits of Washington’s undeniable physical attractiveness, there is more than an ounce of genuine desire. Alexander cannot blame him for it. In fact, it would be quite hypocritical of him to do so.

He finds it peculiar how his heart starts to beat slightly faster.

Washington must interpret his involuntary stilled hand as a sign of conclusion of his letter, for he finally speaks up.

“I would ask a favor of you, Lieutenant Colonel,” he starts, awaiting his aide’s prompting ‘Sir?’ before continuing, “I have had no time nor, to be entirely frank, the vigor to write to our... to Lafayette. However, I believe it would be... appropriate to extend my well-wishes.”

The couple of hesitations and careful, neutrally chosen words don’t escape Alexander’s notice, which serve to nullify John’s theory that the General’s problem doesn’t at the very least involve Lafayette personally. Nevertheless, Alexander would never deny Lafayette a communication from their General. Especially not when it could potentially reassure the Frenchman that his close friendship with Washington is still ongoing.

“Shall I add your signature then, Sir?” Alexander suspects that the General wishes to add more than the simple scribble.

Washington’ lips quirk up in amusement. “Much as I doubt even the Marquis could detect your forgery, there are a couple of words or so I would wish to pen myself.” Before his aide can answer, he adds, “Naturally, you are free to refuse, should you rightfully desire to keep your writings separate and... personal.”

Alexander’s eyes suddenly narrow, this time unsettled by Washington’s word choice. Could it be that he did in fact understand the letter? But if so, why has he not dragged Alexander to the pole to be publicly flayed already–although he doubts Washington would ever befall him this punishment. But no, that couldn’t be, otherwise why would he want to add his own message to the subjective filth that constitutes half of the letter?

He mentally shakes off his paranoia. His and Lafayette’s relationship is a well-kept secret among the members of the Revolutionary Set –although Mulligan is still off on his spying assignment, therefore not yet in the know. Although Alexander has his suspicions that the man, perceptive as he is, might have already long since pieced it together.

There is a twinge of guilt as he slides his letter over to Washington, believing that he should feel more uncomfortable at having the General even touching something that would make a French sailor blush.

He is sure Lafayette will be rolling on the ground from laughter when he regals him the story of the evening in exact detail.

The thought of Lafayette’s heart-warming laughter sends a pang of longing through him. He looks forward to seeing him again.

Washington offers him an appreciative smile, then picks up his own quill, promptly setting to work. It takes him under a minute to pen the words he doubtlessly had been mulling over for a considerable time in his head.

All the while, Alexander barely restrains himself from fidgeting in his seat. When the General is done, he leans back in his chair, turning the letter around and handing it back to the other man. His shoulders already seem less tense.

Alexander is unable to help the way his eyes quickly scan the bottom of the page.

_‘Until the Queen is restored to the position where she is most needed, the Knight and the Rook battle for her attention. The King awaits the reunion, fervent.’_

He barely has time to wonder what the two sentences could possibly mean or if he should ask whether the lack of an official signature is voluntary when Washington speaks up.

“I couldn’t help but notice Lieutenant Colonel Laurens’ handwriting, nearly illegible as it was.”

“Ah, yes, Sir,” Alexander huffs while pocketing the letter, “That would be the reason behind our earlier friendly dispute.”

With the tension in the air slowly dissipating, Washington allows himself a low chuckle, nearly a rumble, which sends yet another sudden rush of heat through Alexander. He brushes it off as the summer humidity.

“I see.” He pauses, lifting an eyebrow. “Perhaps I should give the Marquis’ attempts at a professorship another moment of consideration, if only to reassure myself that my staff is not plotting a coup.”

Alexander surprises himself with a bark of laughter, “I believe Lafayette would be well-beyond elated to hear you say so, Sir.” He can easily imagine the Frenchman’s radiant smile should Washington voluntarily ask him for French lessons. “But I assure you, Your Excellency, we would never so openly plan such treachery.”

Washington’s fond smile turns into a short yet booming laugh, “Forgive me if I doubt your lot’s capabilities for discretion, son.”

“ _Sir,_ ” Alexander’s mock-indignant squawk draws another laugh from the General. The younger man finds it immensely refreshing after nearly an entire week of tension.

By the time their amusement gently subsides, Washington’s eyes are much brighter than they have been since Lafayette’s temporary relocation.

“Will you have a drink with me, Alexander?”

Alexander’s eyes flicker down to the desk for the briefest second, the way his name sounds coming from the General’s lips always managing to set off a sharp jolt of _je-ne-sais-quoi_ within him.

“Gladly, Sir.”

Washington nods and opens the bottom cabinet of his desk, pulling out two aluminium cups and a label-less, half-finished bottle. He pours them what Alexander can only guess to be whiskey, judging by the liquid’s amber color.

“To the Union,” The General raises his cup, mirrored by Alexander.

“To the Revolution.” They clink soberly.

They spend the next few minutes in comfortable silence, sipping at their drinks. Alexander bites down on his tongue multiple times to avoid breaking it. In usual circumstances, he wouldn’t refrain from talking, asking questions, or even going on a rant on the subject of their shared frustration about Congress. Silence has never been his forte, after all.

However, as the impression that the General wishes to broach a specific subject has yet to fade since they’ve entered the tent, Alexander bravely attempts to keep his thoughts to himself.

“Your silence is atypical, son,” the older man eventually comments, “Is there something on your mind?”

Alexander mentally sighs. He can’t say he didn’t try, although he feels as though he should be the one asking the General the same question.

“May I speak freely, Sir?” At Washington’s minute inclination of his head, Alexander sets his cup back down on the desk, bracing himself for the possibility of being harshly dismissed. “I take it this,” he gestures vaguely between them, meaning this past quarter-of-an-hour or so spent pleasantly, “is your way of extending an olive branch?”

A long sigh. “Am I that transparent?”

“Only to those who’ve spent enough time in your company to know the signs, Sir,” Alexander lets his tone lean towards light-heartedness, unwilling to sound dejecting of the peace offer, “Nonetheless, it’s... I accept and appreciate it.”

The look Washington gives him manages to be simultaneously fond and suspicious.

“You have no grievances over my ill-tempered treatment of you these past few days, then?”

Alexander almost laughs at the obviously doubtful question. But he refrains, seeing an opening to dig into the subject.

He shrugs nonchalantly. “Of course I do, Sir,” he answers honestly, yet without any bite to it, “However, as opposed to Lafayette, I have no quarrels with temporarily harboring frustration against His Excellency.”

Alexander carefully observes Washington’s pinched look at the vague mention of the Frenchman regarding their ‘spat’, or whatever it may be. He continues to push.

“Lafayette– Gilbert, he does nothing short of revering every step you take, every word you say.” He doesn’t mention the casual touches, as he is unsure whether he is allowed to mention his knowledge of them. “I trust you are aware of that fact?”

It is impossible to miss the way Washington’s posture changes to something more guarded. Should the General deny the open-secret, Alexander would have to disappointedly dub him a liar.

“I am aware, yes.” Washington’s famed honesty remains untainted.

“Then you’ll understand my– _our_ bewilderment on the day of General Sullivan’s departure, as you caused Lafayette unnecessary and frankly gratuitous sorrow.”

He pauses long enough to access whether he has finally stepped over a line. However, when Washington remains silent, perhaps understanding that the younger man is not yet done in his well-founded accusations, Alexander continues.

“While I cannot presume to understand the stresses and pressure you must be under, I believe you have committed an error towards the Marquis.” And as an afterthought, “Sir.”

The silence stretches between them uncomfortably, but still Alexander cannot come to regret his words, having felt the need to defend his sweet Marquis’ honor since the incident.

“You have some nerve, Hamilton,” Washington finally says, although his words are spoken without annoyed accusation. Alexander would almost describe them as fond.

“Yessir,” he can’t help but snark, “That’s why you hired me as your chief of staff.”

“No, I hired you as an aide-de-camp among others of the same rank,” Washington scoffs, “ _You_ made yourself their unofficial leader.”

While Alexander fights down a blush, the General leans forward then, joining his hands together on the wooden desk, his tone taking a more serious turn.

“But you are correct, about my... misstep with Lafayette,” the older man sighs, rubbing a hand over his tired face, “I addressed him in manner most unbefitting my position, not as his superior officer, but as his friend.”

Alexander bites his lower lip, his curiosity boldening, “If I may ask, Sir–”

“I doubt you wouldn’t if I said no.”

“–Has there been a disagreement between you and the Marquis?” He is confident there has been nothing of the sort, else Lafayette would have told him. Not to mention, the Frenchman had been in a jovial mood –particularly after their own private goodbye– up until the very moment Washington had surprised them all with his rebuttal of the ‘traditional’ Lafayette-signature parting exchange.

But _something_ has happened, Alexander is certain of it.

Washington keeps his eyes fixed on Alexander, but his gaze becomes slightly unfocused for a brief second. A flash of anger in those deep, soulful orbs causes Alexander’s breath to catch in his throat, although it too is brief, quickly replaced by a glint of guilt and something else the young soldier can’t quite name nor place.

“I’m regretful to say that Lafayette’s only mistake had been to be in the wrong place at the wrong time,” the General says with a small shake of his head, “Nothing more. As you’ve said, I am clothed with burdens, and although the pressure of war is bearable at best, it occasionally becomes impossible to ignore.”

“And when it does, you tear into innocent and well-meaning soldiers,” Alexander concludes, having seen and even lived through the occurrence often enough to understand what the General means to convey.

However, he does not believe the excuse for one second.

“Watch it, Alexander,” Washington grunts, although seemingly more for appearances’ sake than actual offense, “But crude summarization aside, yes. It is a fact of which I am far from proud.”

Alexander quickly considers the possibility and repercussions of calling the General out on his deflection. He easily decides to let it rest for now, seeing as the two of them are having their first civilized conversation in days and he doubts his commander would appreciate being called a liar –regardless of it being the truth.

“Will you make amends with Lafayette as you’ve done with me, Sir?”

Washington takes a final sip of his drink before slowly setting it back down on the desk. “Have I made amends with you, Alexander?”

Although the question is a common measure of asserting whether the offended party has been satisfied, the Caribbean man easily detects the insecurity in the other man’s tone of voice. Alexander feels oddly touched that a man as proud and powerful as General Washington would worry about being forgiven by a lowly soldier by comparison such as he.

“You have, Your Excellency,” Alexander answers truthfully, knowing that despite his own infamous short and at times brash temper, he couldn’t possibly imagine holding a grudge against the General for long.

They work better with a desk devoid of any animosity, and they have a war to win, after all.

The small smile that once again graces Washington’s lips only reinforces the belief that Alexander would rather resolve any and all conflicts with his commander promptly than be deprived of his shows of appreciation –and dare he say, affection.

“Then I can only hope that our dear Marquis is as generous with his forgiveness as you are.”

At that, Alexander cannot help himself and snorts. “Of that, Sir, I have no doubt,” he says with a grin, holding back a comment about his belief that Lafayette would enthusiastically throw himself into an arena full of hungry lions if it meant ensuring Washington’s happiness.

Washington’s lips quirk upwards in a way that has Alexander believing that they have shared the same line of thought concerning the passionate Frenchman.

Sometimes, Alexander wonders if he should feel any jealousy or envy concerning Lafayette’s near infatuation with the General. But as soon as the thought appears, it vanishes with a scoff; he trusts Gilbert, he understands his need for propinquity with others, in this case Washington. Still, the idea of the existence of something more buzzes quietly in the back of his mind.

“Will you write him your own letter, then?” Alexander asks him, “I will ensure it joins the others tomorrow morning–”

But Washington holds up a placating hand, “That won’t be necessary,” he starts, “I doubt I can conjure anything sensical, much less sensible, without a night’s rest at present. I will endeavor to have a draft ready for the next outgoing intermediaries. However, I tend to favor in-person apologies.”

“Of course, Sir,” Alexander dips in head in understanding, vowing to make sure the General’s letter leaves securely the day after tomorrow, “I believe Lafayette will be most grateful for the opportunity to... secure your reconciliation eye-to-eye.”

They both chuckle at the imagery of their favorite Frenchman bouncing at Washington to kiss his cheeks. Perhaps he’ll go as far as claim an extra couple of kisses for the ones he was denied before.

They spend a comfortable minute in silence, letting the conversation properly sink in before closing. The weight has been lifted from both their shoulders, their minds eased, and soon, so will Lafayette’s.

“Thank you, Alexander,” Washington says quietly, earnestly, “Your counsel is, as always, highly appreciated.”

“Any time, Your Excellency.”

All will return as it should be.

* * *

It doesn’t occur to Washington nor Alexander to think about the letter again, both consumed in the sudden and unexpected call for arms the very next morning even before the sun has fully risen, forcing the Continental Army to rush into Brandywine to face the enemy. Unknown to the General and his aide, the letter never even makes it past Chadds Ford Bridge, forced back into retreat amidst the chaos of gunfire and cannon blasts.

* * *

_The Battle of Brandywine_

They are outgunned.

The sounds of superior British artillery and heavy cannons are like thunder and lightning, reverberating through their ribcages, matching their rapid and frantic heartbeats, causing their fingers to freeze on the trigger. A second, just a single second, is enough to cost them their lives.

They are outmanned.

Painfully ignoring their fallen comrades, the American soldiers scatter to take desperate cover, barely able to differentiate allies from foes as cannonballs shatter the earth and trees around them, splattering blood and gore everywhere. Their proud blue uniforms darken with the crimson additions. Unable to discern orders from screams of rage, fear, or agony, they can only act as each man for themselves.

They are outnumbered.

It had seemed an unlikely victory even before the first drop of blood had been shed. It is nearly impossible to tell which of their flanks is getting razed quicker, or the location of the hole from Hell where the British soldiers seem to continuously crawl out of. The sight of wave after wave of redcoats serves to fray the remaining nerves of even the bravest soldiers.

They are outplanned.

They had not anticipated the attack to arrive from all sides at Chadds Ford, especially not two weeks before the predicted date. By the time Sullivan and his troops had arrived, Washington’s right wing had broken, taken by surprise by General Howe at the rear. The left wing had not fared any better soon after, forcing a retreat to the edge of Dilworth near the woods, mercifully supported by General Greene’s men as they held the British off. They hadn’t had the time to regroup before another British attack had sent them into disarray again.

Seeing no victory in sight, the Continental Army considered retreat, its men falling by the hundreds. They could still easily avoid thousands of casualties, if not for the absolute lack of order among the flanks, fear and adrenaline sending the soldiers into a panicked frenzy, costing them their lives.

The sun has barely begun its descent when Lafayette arrives to the sight of lost soldiers, terrified, untrained boys, most of them not far older than himself. His own surge of fear makes him tighten his grip on his horse’s reins, before shoving it down. He will not fail his duties as a Continental soldier.

General Stirling, on behalf of Washington, has given the order to retreat. His troops, combined with Sullivan’s, Stephen’s, and Greene’s are sent to hold the British back long enough to gather the rest of the scattered army and fall back. But it seems no one has informed the disorganized troop of that order.

Determined, Lafayette breaks out of Sullivan’s ranks and furiously rides his horse as far as his faithful beast will allow before jumping off and sending the mare away. He can already feel the bullets whizz past him, and the earth tremble beneath his boots as cannonballs destroy the meek makeshift shelters behind which soldiers lay trembling and blindly shooting at the enemy. Old wooden pasture fences and piles of cracked cobblestones make for poor protection.

But nevertheless, Lafayette rushes into the carnage, coat quickly becoming heavy with the blood of the unfortunate victims he crosses path with, his sword dripping with the warm liquid in hand. His rifle and bayonet are hot with usage across his back, a morbidly reassuring weight to carry. He moves along what he thinks are Greene’s troops, slashing through the flesh of faceless redcoats as he does so in order to reach the broken left wing. He sees John Laurens among the brave men, his speckled visage now speckled with droplets of blood as well. Their eyes meet briefly, nodding to the other in quick encouragement.

Sliding his blade in and out of moving bodies while spinning to avoid or block incoming attacks again and again almost feels like a dance, a mental image the Frenchman entertains for the sake of pushing down the guilt of taking these human lives –regardless of their status as enemies of the nation.

When he reaches the disorderly battalion, he throws himself down on the crimson grass, behind a crumbling stone wall, gathering the attention of the soldiers huddled there. He relays Washington’s decision, with as much of a composed tone he can manage while shouting to be heard. He then makes his own improvised orders heard, strategically dividing the battalion into a sound, tactical retreat while instructing them where to stand and aim their bullets as to improve their chances of outlasting the onslaught. By the time his orders have been transmitted and executed throughout Washington’s left wing, the sun has turned bright orange.

He then makes the same perilous ‘dance’ over to the right wing, stumbling once as a sharp pain shoots up his leg, which he ignores. He reaches the similarly disastrous second battalion, where he finds Alexander and a few other soldiers carefully aiming at a British cannon party from behind a couple of miraculously still standing wooden crates. The sight of him is both a balm to his nerves, and an unwelcome shot of worry. He takes position alongside Alexander, who glances up in acknowledgment. The Frenchman hisses at the insistent pain in his calf. When he looks down, he notices the blood and curses. Still, he ignores it, instead repeating his orders already given to their sister troop.

Rapidly observing the state of this battalion and their opposition, Lafayette then turns his attention solely on Alexander.

“Alexander, you must lead the first column. Make sure they join the left wing’s _troisième_ _et quatrième_ columns and–” He is cut off by nearby cannon firing, “–and await Greene’s order.”

Alexander is about to answer, when he catches sight of Lafayette’s bloody left calf, “You’re wounded. You cannot stay here–”

“ _Ce n’est rien_ , now go, Alexander, I will be alright,” he presses, the pain gradually growing while his nerves briskly frizzle the longer Alexander and the battalion remain here.

“But–”

“That is an _order_ , Lieutenant Colonel! Now _go!_ ” He barely recognizes his own voice in that moment, but there is no time to dwell upon it. All that matters is that Alexander’s eyes harden, and he nods sharply before starting to move.

Lafayette, unable to help himself despite the situation, quickly reaches to clasp Alexander’s forearm, forcing his eyes to regain their air of calm composure, offering the other soldier a small smile, “I will see you when this is over, _mon brave lion_.” He releases his arm after giving it a squeeze, letting his eyes take in the sight of his beautiful Alexander for a second longer. “And tell _le Général_ his Queen will return soon.”

Alexander’s parting smirk only encourages Lafayette to get this battle moving forward to be over with.

Lafayette lets himself exhale shakily once, and makes his way towards the rest of the battalion, limping more with each step but determined to keep up his speed. All seems to be going according to plan, he notes with relief.

Until the last column breaks rank to duck by one of the cannons, seemingly intent on setting it alight. Lafayette curses loudly, quickly instructing the column around him to aim at the British forefront artillery for exactly two minutes before joining the previous rank.

Gritting his teeth at the pain, the Marquis turns back and takes cover with the unruly column. He shouts at them to abandon the damn cannon and follow orders. He receives a protest from the men who state they need to attack, not retreat. Lafayette wants to shoot them himself. They are compromising the safety of the previous column as well as their own uncovered side.

With a tone he rarely uses, Lafayette roars some colorful words at them, followed by his repeating order to move, at his mark only. He is satisfied when they obey, looking up at the far point where the entire left wing, three quarters of the right wing, and Greene’s troops have converged into structured ranks once more, awaiting his last men to retreat.

He sees Alexander, unmistakable even from far away, dutifully following his orders, accompanied by John Laurens. And for a moment, he wishes General Washington could see him as he leads the wayward troops, so that he may bask in his pride. Perhaps later.

But just as Lafayette allows himself an ounce of relief at the prospect of embracing his Alexander and his _Général_ –should the latter allow it, considering the way they parted– once this horror show has passed, multiple things happen within a fraction of a second of each other:

First, he hears the ominous sound of a British cannon firing, the boom too clear to be anywhere but aimed at them.

Second, he has enough time to hear the first syllable of his name being shouted across the field, in the familiar yet unrecognizable tone of Alexander’s terror-stricken voice.

Third, he shouts at his men to take cover and throws himself as far away as he can from where he can take a tactical guess as to where the cannonball is aimed: their own cannon, to which he happens to stand by the closest.

Lastly, he learns of the volatile reaction resulting from the impact of a cannonball against another cannon. The aggressive mashing of brass, iron, and gunpowder storms enough of an explosion to propel him through the air, sending his body and mind into a state of burning pain, before it all turns dark.

He knows no more.

* * *


	4. From Each Point of View

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloheyhi!
> 
> Thank you so much for the comments! I love them!!  
> Here is another chapter! We'll be moving forward soon, I swear! Haha, I just cannot resist flashbacks and povs ;)
> 
> Still, let me know what you think~

* * *

_Previously:_

_Lastly, he learns of the volatile reaction resulting from the impact of a cannonball against another cannon. The aggressive mashing of brass, iron, and gunpowder storms enough of an explosion to propel him through the air, sending his body and mind into a state of burning pain, before it all turns dark._

_He knows no more._

* * *

_Six days earlier_

George Washington had woken up just before the first rays of sunlight, a habit from his farming days in Mount Vernon he had never bothered to break. Rousing to the sight of his dear Marquis sleeping peacefully nestled against his side had been a most pleasant way to start the day.

For a few tranquil minutes, Washington had allowed himself to observe the way Lafayette’s chest rose and fell with each breath travelling in and out of his minutely parted lips. He had been almost saddened to wake the younger man, although the small noise of tiredness and grumbled protest it had earned him had been just as heart-warming.

With a parting kiss to the cheek, a smile and an explanation that Laurens and Hamilton would be cross should he also miss their communal breakfast, Lafayette had scampered out of the tent, a whiff of his Washington’s own cologne lingering where he had stood. A fond smile in place, the General had readied himself for the day with a much lighter feeling in his chest.

The early morning had been spent as any other, although Washington had been dismayed to hear about a row that had occurred at dawn between a new recruit and a brigadier, nearly ending in a duel –the sort he had specifically banned from happening in his ranks– if not for a passing captain. Hamilton, who had been the one to read the report to him, had sighed with his own look of barely-concealed annoyance, which in itself had served to calm the General down somewhat.

It was amusing to have his chief of staff as unamused as him, and rightfully so, considering the younger man was usually tasked with informing the two offenders of their punishment, which would surely result in protests and horror-stricken looks: cleaning the latrines.

When the time comes for Sullivan and his troops to prepare for their leave, the General expects to be accompanied by the infernal trio of Laurens, Hamilton and Lafayette, the two Lieutenant Colonels doubtlessly there for the simple sake of staying by the Frenchman’s side for as long as possible. However, only a third of the dubbed Revolutionary Set, Laurens, is currently within his eyesight, helping the soldiers with readying their horses. The other two are mysteriously absent.

It will not do to have General Sullivan wait on the Marquis.

He resists the urge to sigh at his soldiers’ tendency for childish behavior, deciding to give them the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps they’re both caught in some issue that requires their undivided attention.

Nevertheless, Washington asks the nearest soldier –Private Farrell– of his knowledge of the two’s whereabouts. The young soldier, surprised at being called to attention from the General himself, stutters out his latest sighting of the missing aide and Frenchman.

Now, Washington could send someone else to retrieve Hamilton and Lafayette, but seeing as he is currently unneeded, he sees no reasons not to seek out his wayward soldiers in order to spend the trek back in pleasant company. He cannot deny understanding Laurens’ and Hamilton’s willingness to spend as much time as possible in Lafayette’s presence, after all.

Thus, he begins his search. It is not hard to receive information on the location of the unmistakable Marquis and chief aide-de-camp. The clues lead him, oddly enough, to a deserted part of the camp, where numerous large crates are stacked up behind empty tents.

He begins to wonder if the latest soldier he’d asked about their latest sighting of Hamilton and Lafayette had been mistaken, when he catches a hint of familiar voices. Distinctive yet hushed voices, unmistakably belonging to his right-hand man and the Marquis.

Washington readies himself to round the corner of the tent to lightly admonish his soldiers for slacking in their duties, when Alexander’s words stop him just before he does so, the two men now in his eyesight, half hidden by the crates.

“I could always sneak out of camp and follow you,” his chief of staff says, voice light and playful.

“ _Surtout pas, mon petit lion_ ,” Lafayette answers, “Then who will look after John and _le_ _Général?_ ”

Washington hears Hamilton huff a small laugh, but sees him lower his head, his shoulders slumping. Lafayette tuts gently, hooking his index finger under the other man’s chin to lift his head back up.

“ _Eh là_ , none of this,” the Frenchman cooes softly, “Head high, my Alexander. It will not do to leave you so _triste_.”

A teasing smirk appears on Hamilton’s lips. “Then will you not allow this sad soul an _au revoir_ kiss?”

At that, Washington frowns, finding the phrasing and the entire exchange somewhat different than usual. But when he sees Lafayette pick up Alexander’s hand to bestow a kiss upon it, he brushes off the bizarre impression and decides to leave them to their touching farewell.

It simply seems Lafayette’s tactile manners have rubbed off on more than one person.

Washington barely takes a step in the opposite direction when he hears a sudden ‘thud’ followed by a muffled whining sound. He spins back around, curious and vaguely concerned about the odd sound.

His breath catches in his throat at the sight.

There, barely thirty feet away, stand two of his best soldiers, lips locked in a passionate kiss as though their lives depend on it. Alexander has the Marquis pinned against a pile of crates, hands fisted in the lapels of his coat. One of the Lafayette’s hands draws his companion nearer by the small of his back while the other threads the raven hair at his nape.

General Washington usually prides himself in being decisive in crucial moments, quick to think on his feet, able to follow through with the choices he makes. However, right at that moment, he hesitates.

His eyes are glued to the happenings there, so close to him. Shock and outrage are the first emotions to course through him, quickly followed by anger. The only thing that prevents him from stepping forward and putting an end to this...this _folly_ , is the surge of jealousy that blooms with a bang in his chest.

No, not jealousy. _Envy_. Deep, consuming envy.

The revelation shocks him out of his stupor, and he quickly steps back, the corner of the tent hiding the amorous affair. He realizes he’s been holding his breath when his lungs demand air. He inhales deeply, his feet moving before his mind processes the request, guiding him farther away from the two blasphemous soldiers.

His mind is reeling from the incident he’s witnessed, not knowing how to process it. He’s no fool, he’s aware that war makes his men lonely and sometimes desperate for an outlet to remind themselves they are still alive. He knows other generals would punish their subordinates without a second thought, have them shot publicly even, but not him. Despite his primary thoughts on the matter, ingrained into him throughout his boyhood years, he forgives his soldiers’ indiscretions, so long as there is no rank disparity. That, he will not allow. Should he find out an officer has taken advantage of his rank to receive _favors_ , he will not hesitate to pull the trigger himself.

And yet, Lafayette is three ranks above Hamilton. But Washington knows there was nothing forced in what he saw. It is common knowledge that the two are the closest of friends. Lovers too, as he has now learned.

The image of the two men pressed together, lips moving together in ardent synchronization, is seared into his mind. He wonders how long their dalliance has been ongoing, for he doubts this was its beginning, not when the two seemed too intimately familiar with the other’s body for it to be an outlier in their routine lives.

He also wonders how deep the Marquis and Alexander are involved with one another, whether it is just a fiery pastime, or rather an amorous romance. If it so happens to be the latter –which the General is more inclined to believe, for some implicit reason– then he doesn’t understand why Lafayette has been acting the way he has with him all this time; why offer such closeness to Washington when clearly it should be directed towards Alexander only?

_The proximity, the hand-holding, the lingering kisses on his cheeks and hands, the touches–_

Yet, Lafayette belongs to Alexander, and Alexander belongs to Lafayette, as the scene he’s just witnessed informs him.

How had he been so blind?

Washington is not a part of their unique dynamic –he can never be, not when the thought of participating in an already sealed relationship is unimaginable, with _men_ no less, and not when he dons the title of Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army.

The dripping feeling of envy increases, leaving Washington confused and heavy with a sudden melancholy. He doesn’t understand it. Or perhaps he does, but refuses to acknowledge it fully, for the sake of his own sanity. He has no time for such introspections.

They have a war to win, after all.

Determined to remain focused, he wills his unwelcomed desolation to shift towards something more productive. Unfortunately, the only other emotion Washington can currently latch onto seems to be anger.

When he sees Alexander and Lafayette again shortly after, too short a time for him to manage his temper other than by encasing it in ice, he lashes out in the only way he can control.

He regrets it as soon as he sees the hurt in Lafayette’s expressive eyes. This –inflicting pain upon his sweet Marquis– feels infinitely more _wrong_ than his inappropriate and wishful thoughts ever could.

But he reminds himself that the Frenchman isn’t his, his affections an honor not meant for him.

He regrets taking his frustration out on Alexander later just as much, just as he’ll regret doing it the days after as well.

If he finds himself ashamed for letting his personal conflicts come in the way of his and his chief of staff’s working relationship, then he’ll attempt to correct it, using the convenient letter debacle as an excuse to summon Alexander privately after days of avoidance and denial.

If he catches himself mentally stuttering at the sight of Alexander lowering his eyes beautifully, as he does every time Washington calls him by his name, then he’ll scold himself back into focus.

If he feels himself internally sag with relief at their reconciliation and Alexander’s indignation at Washington’s treatment of Lafayette, followed by his encouragement to resume their closeness, then he’ll vow to put a stop to any feeling of self-pity, for the sake of Lafayette and Alexander’s comfort.

And if he catches his mind wandering into another realm, one where he allows himself to seek what he desires, then he will swiftly ignore it. He’s done so before, after all.

The next day, he’ll also ignore the ominous feeling that plummets down his stomach at the sound of the large explosion as he gallops through the woods to meet with the other generals as they retreat.

* * *

John Laurens’ heart has not stopped beating twice its normal rhythm for hours. It hasn’t stuttered once since the battle had started early that morning, not for a single British soldier’s life he’s taken.

John prides himself in being a good soldier; brave, headstrong, efficient. Capable of drawing blood without remorse –or at least, until the danger has passed. It is easy to ignore the unmoving bodies at his feet when a single glance downwards, a single second of loss of focus, could bring about his end.

He finds a kinship in Lafayette’s prowess in the battlefield, even as their fighting techniques differ. Indeed, Lafayette somehow manages to make manslaughter graceful, while John tends to charge full force, similar to a bull.

In Alexander, he finds his own thoughts mirrored back at him. They think alike, their judgements and opinions on par –which is how they often end up creating trouble when left together unsupervised.

John easily sees what Lafayette and Alexander find in each other as well; a common intense passion for a country not theirs by birth, a resilience unequalled by even the most seasoned veteran, a practical and tactical mind unmatched by any other.

John couldn’t ask for better comrades, for better friends. The three of them –along with Hercules Mulligan when he is among them– complete each other. Together they are an unstoppable force.

Seeing them both on the battlefield gives John strength and courage. Witnessing Lafayette’s unhesitant, smooth transition from the center troops to the left wing, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake gives John hope that perhaps their forces are not helpless. As the Frenchman crosses the field again half an hour later however, John notices his sudden stumble. His eyes catch sight of his friend’s left leg, noticing the quick spread of fresh crimson down his calf.

Yet, John’s heartbeat still doesn’t stutter. He watches with admiration as Lafayette continues his mission without fail and care for the wound. John can only hope he’ll have the sense to get it treated as soon as he can, not that he believes the Frenchman will abandon his post for it. Neither would he nor Alexander, he’s sure. They are all equally stubborn in that regard.

John spots Alexander in a flash at the entrance of the woods, seeing him lead the first column away. He joins him, aiding in keeping his back secure. He sees General Sullivan on his mount, overlooking the ranks critically before turning his horse around to guide the troops back into the gathering of trees, seemingly satisfied with the arrangement of his soldiers.

Finally devoid of any redcoats near their position, John allows himself to shift his gaze from the troops to Alexander, rapidly taking in his seemingly unharmed state, and then to Lafayette and his faraway position. He frowns as he sees the last column veer away from their designated position. He notices Alexander wears the same expression for a few seconds before his eyes widen as they settle on the other side of the battlefield.

Alexander sharply orders the men around him to aim and open fire at the British cannon brigade, fourth from the right extremity. John brandishes his rifle before even thinking of questioning why, and shoots. John’s heart continues to beat as it does.

Their target is far away, hard to discern among the sea of redcoats and gunpowder smoke. John lowers his weapon at the sound of the cannon firing, eyes snapping up to the Marquis’ position when Alexander begins to shout Lafayette’s name, only to be cut off with deafening abruptness.

John Laurens’ heartbeat changes its rhythm only once throughout this battle.

He feels it acutely despite the ground around them shaking from the force of the thunderous explosion. His heart nearly stops as Lafayette disappears into a cloud of fire and black smoke.

He is frozen in place, shock coursing through his body, set alight by Alexander’s heart-wrenching cry. Still, John reacts quickly, looping an arm around Alexander’s waist to prevent him from running towards the carnage.

Alexander fights him, howling to be let go. John’s heart breaks at the despair in his voice, but nevertheless he pulls Alexander close to him. He knows they must move forward with the rest of the troops, much as he would rather run alongside Alexander.

But he also knows the chances of surviving such an explosion are slim, if not impossible from where Lafayette had been standing. The thought nearly makes him sick with sudden grief, but he pushes it down until this is over.

The British troops are already taking over the ground where the last column had been, where faceless bodies now lay scattered and unmoving amidst the slowly clearing smoke. John twists Alexander in his arms to face him, and promptly delivers a sharp slap. He’ll apologize for it later, should they make it out amidst the new wave of bullets.

Alexander seems to come back to his senses, eyes empty but thankfully focused. John urges him to keep moving for the sake of leading the other soldiers back to safety. Together they close the last of the right wing, concluding the Continental Army’s retreat.

They’ve lost the battle, they’ve lost soldiers, brothers-in-arms. Most painfully, they’ve lost a piece of themselves.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translations:  
>  Surtout pas, mon petit lion: Surely not, my little lion  
>  Eh là: Hey there  
>  triste: sad  
>  au revoir: goodbye


	5. Words Carry Weight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HiHiHi!
> 
> Ok, so we're FINALLY moving forward in the plot! ...or are we?   
> Yes we are.  
> Or...?
> 
> Bref, here's the chapter! Don't hesitate to leave a comment, feedback, complaints, declarations of your undying love, whichever!
> 
> Enjoy ;)

* * *

_Previously:_

_The British troops are already taking over the ground where the last column had been, where faceless bodies now lay scattered and unmoving amidst the slowly clearing smoke. John twists Alexander in his arms to face him, and promptly delivers a sharp slap. He’ll apologize for it later, should they make it out amidst the new wave of bullets._

_Alexander seems to come back to his senses, eyes empty but thankfully focused. John urges him to keep moving for the sake of leading the other soldiers back to safety. Together they close the last of the right wing, concluding the Continental Army’s retreat._

_They’ve lost the battle, they’ve lost soldiers, brothers-in-arms. Most painfully, they’ve lost a piece of themselves._

* * *

When Lafayette wakes, he cannot breathe. His airways are constricted, his mouth is stuffed –with dirt, or blood, or both, he doesn’t know. He chokes. His ears are ringing a high-pitched sound alongside the thunderous beat of his heart.

It smells of copper and wet grass. He believes to be lying in it, on his back, if the shapeless but insistent digs along his spine are anything to go by. There’s an acridity in the air, staining the after-smell of pine. It’s not natural. None of this is as should be.

When he tries to open his eyes, the simple movement sends a wave of nausea through him at a rapid speed. But he needs to know where he is, what has happened, so he pushes through it. He is met with a blurry vision, the colors too bright. _Sunset_ , his mind groggily supplies, _or perhaps sunrise._

He attempts to move, only to gasp as agony suddenly courses through his every nerve. He doesn’t understand why he cannot move, nor where he is. He blinks a few times, each adjustment of his pupils pulling him back towards blissful darkness. Something red enters his eyesight.

And suddenly, his brain shocks itself back to an abbreviated reality. _Red means bad. Defend!_ There’s a war. He’s enlisted in a war for his country. No, not quite for his country. For a new country which fights to win their independence. Yet he loves this country. But they are losing. They were falling back. He was moving, he was shot, he was...

He blinks again, the red blur above him taking a humanesque shape. He realizes he is indeed alive, but fallen. The enemy now controls how long he has to live. It ignites a desperate rage within him.

He tries to lift his right arm, a choked, pained sound scratching its way out of his throat for it.

He slowly turns his head to the side, and notes with mounting sickness that his right shoulder is impaled by a large, unceremonious stake of wood, right below his clavicle. He remembers that their cannon had exploded, its base having been made of wood. Another surge of despair prompts him to attempt moving his left arm.

He is successful, if lethargically. He grapples blindly for anything around him, the strain of it threatening to send him back under. The ringing in his ears subsides just enough for him to hear voices speaking above him. What they say does not matter, not when his hand closes around something cold and solid. Not caring to find the handle of what he hopes to be a sword, he lifts it and blindly swings it towards the general direction of the voices.

Satisfaction arises through the fog of pain and fear when he hears a groan. However, it is short-lived as his arm is forced back down with a large weight. The weapon drops from his hand as he emits another choked moan of pain, or maybe a scream, eyes screwing back shut.

But when he feels the unmistakable end of a well-sharpened blade touch his throat, tilting his head back, he compels himself to crack open his eyes again, staring up at the enemy for what he knows will be the very last time. It does not matter that his throat constricts at the thought of speaking, but Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette, proud volunteer in General George Washington’s Continental Army, will not go down silently.

He will not let his last thoughts be left unheard.

“ _F-_ _Freedom for America... Freedom for France..._ ”

A sharp pain, and blissful silence.

* * *

The battle had started in the early morning, a heavy fog around them, and had finished when the sun had set, a fog of cannon smoke around them instead. Come midnight, the bulk of George Washington’s troops have settled in Chester, the rest gradually following suit until the early hours of morning.

Despite his exhaustion, Washington now remains awake, sitting at a makeshift desk in his tent, glaring at the military maps and charts they had carefully planned and traced, and ultimately, failed to see through. Outside, he hears the sound of more tents being erected in the terrain they’ve decided to camp in until further notice. Come the next day, he and his generals will discuss their next course of action.

General Greene has only just left his tent, having arrived to camp with his troops under an hour ago. His preliminary reports of his troops’ wounded and casualties are as grim as Generals Sterling’s and Stephen’s. Washington now awaits General Sullivan’s arrival, after which he will finally take a moment’s rest. He has yet to change, to even rid himself of anything but his sword and hat, but he sees no need to bother with appearing composed and pristine at this time. Besides, in comparison to most foot soldiers, his uniform still retains most of its original appearance, devoid of tears, grass stains, or a sickening amount of blood. He will not complain for the dried sweat and specks of crimson that cling to him.

Shortly after arriving to camp a couple hours prior, Harrison had approached him with the information of hearing word of Hamilton and Laurens closing the retreat, which had alleviated Washington’s concerns substantially. Indeed, amidst the commotion of a hasty retreat, the General had been unable to track down all of his aides. He had suspected that those two had perhaps been among those made to break rank to assist in the retreat, as had many others, after all.

When the clock nearly strikes three in the morning, Tilghman steps inside his tent briefly to relay the sighting of Sullivan’s troops finally emerging and trickling into camp, followed closely by the remnants of Washington’s right and left wings.

With a sigh of relief, Washington leans back into his chair, expecting General Sullivan to join him within the hour with a few reports of his own –no doubt with Lafayette in tow. Washington has already been given the roughly estimated number of casualties of his own troops by Colonel Fitzgerald.

The loss is heavy and sobering. They were lucky nightfall prevented the British from pursuing them, else their entire army might have been decimated on that day, and the war would have ended on a pitiful 11th of September.

He carefully reins in his anger at the situation, choosing instead to be thankful and relieved for the tactical retreat they’d somehow manage to orchestrate through the chaos and bloodshed. Last he’d heard, Lafayette had been among the wings as well. The Marquis will doubtlessly inform him of the events. He himself had not been able to oversee the proceedings, having had to regroup with Generals Stirling and Stephen.

To see the jubilant Frenchman once again will surely help soften the hardship of this loss. While Washington will most probably drown himself in self-pity and angered accountability regarding all the poor decisions he’s made for this battle, he will at least finally have the opportunity to rectify the wrongness of the situation he’d caused with Lafayette.

Small mercies.

His eyes are drawn once more to the long list of soldiers they’d gathered as being deceased or missing. He takes in their names, their ranks, their age, and sends a silent prayer to Providence for each of them. They will hold a proper ceremony for the good souls they have lost once they’ve rested and recovered.

A selfish thought makes itself known in his mind; he wishes to lay his eyes upon the three charges for whom he admittedly holds a special regard, and therefore a peculiar worry, to ascertain they still stand. Most certainly he ought to wait until morning before summoning them, to let them rest.

Ridiculous thoughts.

Yet he stands almost without thinking, walking towards the entrance of the tent and calling for Tilghman. He just barely refrains himself from demanding that he locates his chief of staff, John Laurens, and the Marquis. Instead he instructs him to retire for the night, mentally patting himself on the back for his self-restraint.

Washington takes the opportunity to peer outside at the tents, at the soldiers sitting by the campfires, hunched over with exhaustion. Rather than wondering why they are not properly resting, he empathizes with their rest-forbidding concerns. The battle, while over, is far from done with. Most likely every single one of his soldiers has witnessed another of their unit fall under the enemy fire, or wounded and hopefully within the reach of treatment.

It proves difficult to ignore the pang of guilt that threatens to cut his breath short.

He shakes his head. This is no yet the time for him to wallow in his own blame, much as he believes he deserves to suffer for his mistakes.

No less than half an hour after sending Tilghman away for the night does Sullivan demand entrance to his tent. Washington rounds his desk, ready to greet the other man, brushing away the disappointment of not having Lafayette follow suit. It’s then that the tent flat parts once more to allow Hamilton and Laurens to enter as well.

Much as he questions their presence here apart from sheer stubbornness to their duties, the sight of them is like a balm to his nerves. He quickly assesses their stance as they salute. They seem uninjured at first glance, yet not quite right either, but for now his focus must remain on the general in front of him.

“John,” Washington starts with familiarity. At this time, after such a taxing battle, there is no more need for titles. They shake hands, neither of their grips as strong as they could be.

“George,” Sullivan sighs. His tone of voice immediately sets off an alarm bell in Washington’s mind. He allows his eyes to glance to the entrance of the tent where his aides remain silent, motionless, staring at the floor. It’s an odd sight, but he supposes it is not entirely unexpected as of now. And yet, something about it unnerves him.

Washington invites his fellow general farther into the tent. “I trust that you’ve seen to your troops for the night?” His statement, while phrased as a question, requires no answer. Instead, it prompts Sullivan to pull a paper from his coat pocket.

“And to your salvaged wings as well,” Sullivan informs him as he hands him the paper. Washington knows he is receiving the first report of casualties. But before he can assess the list, Sullivan sets a hand on his forearm, preventing him from raising the paper to his eyes. “George, there is a matter which I believe you would rather hear from me directly.”

Washington frowns then. He had been prepared to dismiss the general and instruct him to rest before reconvening in a few hours’ time. He once again eyes his two aides, and observes their already tense shoulders stiffen all the more, their posture hunching slightly. Alexander’s head bows as his eyes close. John slowly reaches for his wrist.

His chest begins to tighten in apprehension. Of what exactly, he is unsure. He is unable and unwilling to make a hypothesis. His silence allows Sullivan to take a deep breath before speaking.

“There have been multiple reports from your right wing as well as from my own troops, of an explosion during our retreat,” he starts slowly, which already plays on Washington’s day-worn patience. But he remains silent, his attention rapt. “The last column to retreat were said to have been in the close vicinity of it, and therefore were not made to survive it.”

The feeling of dread suddenly increases tenfold. He refuses to entertain the thought that begins to hammer at his heart, not even as a voice in his head begins to ask _where is L–_

“George,” Sullivan concludes softly, “Major General Lafayette was among those men.”

_‘_ _Major General Lafayette was among those men_ _.’_

_‘Were_ _not made to survive it_ _.’_

_‘_ _Major General Lafayette was among those men_ _.’_

Lafayette.

The words shoot as loud as gunfire, piercing his heart and sending pieces of shrapnel to lodge themselves into his lungs. He barely keeps himself from gasping in shock, in horror. He refrains from shaking his head and shouting at the other general to check the reports again. He swallows the order to count every single soldier in their camp right this instant, to scout out every corner of every tent, to gather up all his battalions to return to the battlefield.

His vision tunnels. He cannot– He _refuses_ to believe it. Despite having voiced his worries only a couple days prior, he’d never truly believed Lafayette – _his dearest Gilbert_ – would be...

It is impossible. And yet he has not misheard Sullivan. There is no mistaking the shuddered intakes of breath of his aides by the entrance of the suddenly suffocating tent.

He’d been living under an illusion, a blinding shield in the face of the real possibility of danger. Where else but in his self-taught delusions would he have his dearest friend be immune to a bayonet, a bullet, or an explosion?

Nowhere.

The information simultaneously overwhelms and numbs him. He knows he is unable to properly ingest it, running ragged as he is, surrounded by men who demand and need nothing less than the pristine image of a serene and composed General. He is not allowed to express his grief the way his subordinates have the privilege to. He may not scream nor shed a tear, he may not send the papers flying from his desk nor throw a bottle to the floor, not while they are witnesses at the very least. He is bound by his position to absorb the pain threatening to emerge, and bury it deep where it will not hinder his men’s morale.

Instead, he tightens his grip ever so slightly on the list of casualties Sullivan has handed him. The list where Lafayette’s name has been inscribed.

“I see,” he manages to voice, carefully keeping the battling rage and grief at bay.

Sullivan’s eyes betray his compassion. It is no secret how close Washington and Lafayette are– _were_.

“I’m sorry, George, truly I am,” the other general tells him, pausing briefly, “And you must be told, it was Major General Lafayette who regimented the retreat. Without him, our losses would have been far greater. Perhaps irreparably so.”

A mixture of pride and bitterness joins the fray of Washington’s inner turmoil. He swallows the lump in his throat, not quite willing to hear more on the subject as of this moment. He glances at Alexander and John. Their silence, their empty eyes, the scene now makes sense to him, and serves to tear at yet another piece of his heart.

“I will see to it that he...” he almost trails off, shaking himself back to attention. It will not do for him to lose his composure in front of his subordinates, “...that he is remembered for his actions. We will reconvene at noon.”

Dismissed, Sullivan nods, and turns to exit the tent. He stops just short, offering a small, regretful smile to Washington. “He was a good man, George.” With a parting glance and nod to the two aides, he leaves for the night.

The tent is left in heavy silence for a long minute, during which Washington fails to form a sentence to fill the uneasy atmosphere. What is there to say, truly?

He notes the way Alexander repeatedly swallows thickly, either forcing down the strong emotions that doubtlessly plague him, or words that he knows are unwise to voice. Perhaps both. John’s hand continues to brush his companion’s wrist, as he too trembles minutely in place.

“Have you sustained any injuries?” Washington asks eventually, for a lack of anything else to say, while genuinely concerned. With the knowledge of their friend’s death, they most probably forewent their own conditions, if any.

A quiet chorus of ‘No, Sir’s faintly reaches his ears. More silence follows. A dozen questions rest on Washington’s tongue: Did they witness Lafayette’s demise? Are they certain? Could he have been saved? Why did this happen?

Is he truly gone?

Instead, he sighs, holding his tongue for the moment present. “You ought to rest now,” he tells them, “Tilghman requested a tent to be erected for you second to the right.”

He turns his back to them, a silent dismissal. He walks back to his desk, grips the back of the chair with one hand for the sole purpose of channeling the need to unload the tension onto the creaking wood. He hears the hurried whispers of his soldiers behind him. He forgives the disrespect for tonight, as he has no strength nor desire to scold such small indiscretions.

Unsurprisingly, he notes that Laurens seems to try quieting whatever it is Hamilton battles to express. Always the voice of reason, Henry Laurens’ son. Yet again unsurprisingly, Hamilton appears to win their hushed argument with a sharp, if somehow pleadingly hissed _‘John’._

“Your Excellency,” Alexander calls for his attention, stepping forward. His voice is undeniably hoarse, the reason for which Washington refuses to picture. “With your leave, I will gather a group of men to return to Chadds Forth. There may still be wounded men that–”

“The British have taken the land, Hamilton,” Washington cuts in with a shake of his head, turning to face Alexander. He knows what the boy’s true intent is, and he will have no part in raising his hopes despite his own desires to partake in them. “I trust our soldiers to have gathered their wounded compatriots to the best of their capacities.”

“But Sir,” Alexander persists, “There might be others out there still alive–”

“In the possibility that in our haste to retreat we were unable to retrieve every single one of our wounded, then we now have no choice but to accept it as an unfortunate loss.”

Alexander opens his mouth to reply, and closes it again. His jaw clenches visibly and he swallows.

“Is that how you would describe Lafayette, Sir?” Alexander hisses through gritted teeth, “ _‘An unfortunate loss’?_ ”

“Alex,” John warns in a snap from behind him, but he goes ignored by both other occupants of the tent.

It is now Washington’s turn to bite down a harsh order to watch his mouth. He takes a deep breath instead, pushing down the guilt at the situation and the anger at the boy in front of him. Alexander’s words come from his own grief; he understands.

While Washington and John have lost a friend and a confidant, Alexander has lost a lover.

“Think rationally, son,” he counters instead, ignoring Alexander’s glower at the term, “Any man left to bleed on the field would have succumbed to their injuries hours ago. If not so, then the British will have seen to their untimely end regardless.”

Despite his sound yet grim argument, Alexander does not back down, even taking another step forward. From this distance, Washington can see the redness in his eyes.

“The British are known for taking prisoners. Perhaps they–”

“You were among those who saw the explosion first-hand, were you not?” Washington begins to feel his patience dwindling, his need for silent and sorrowful contemplation gradually more urgent. “Can you truthfully affirm the existence of a chance of survival?”

Stubbornness is evident in Alexander’s posture, desperation glittering in his eyes. “Lafayette is strong, he is resourceful, he’ll have found a way to–”

“Laurens,” Washington once again cuts him short, not taking his eyes off the agitated soldier as he addresses his other aide, “Is there a chance anyone from the last column survived the explosion?”

He refuses to let himself hope as the tent is plunged into silence for another few seconds before John clears his throat, “From what I’ve seen, Sir...” And Lord, does the Laurens boy sound young and distraught, “No, I don’t believe so. At least– At least not for long.”

Alexander closes his eyes with a staggered exhale, leading Washington to believe they’ve already had this discussion and argument prior to now. Nevertheless, he sighs. It brings him no satisfaction to prove Alexander wrong for this, but he will not have his right-hand man drown himself in denial.

“Get some rest, Alexander, John,” he says softly, barely resisting setting a comforting hand on Alexander’s shoulder. He doubts his touch would be welcomed. “You’ve both fought well, a fact for which I am more grateful than you will ever know.”

It is true; to see his two remaining charges alive and physically well, it keeps him from collapsing right there.

Alexander opens his eyes, something cold invading them. “Lafayette fought better than anyone. Your _gratitude,_ ” he spits the word, “will do nothing to bring him back.”

Laurens takes a step forward this time, hand twitching to reach out, Alexander’s name a gasp on his lips.

It is odd, Washington thinks, to both welcome and resent the anger aimed at him. His broken heart, however, bristles at the second implication that he had no care for the Frenchman past his military abilities, nor any for Alexander or John.

“You would do well to choose your next words carefully, Hamilton,” he says lowly, the threat mostly empty. He is unsure whether it would truly do anyone present any good should he decide to correct Alexander’s blatant disrespect.

He should not be surprised when Alexander takes his warning as a challenge rather than the caution it was.

“As would you,” the younger man shoots back angrily, “when you will see it fit to deliver a eulogy on the merits of yet another soldier’s misplaced and unreciprocated admiration. _Sir_.”

Another thorned flower of grief and anger blooms in his chest, piercing his heart. Can it truly be, will he never again draw another smile from his dearest Marquis? Will he never again witness the Frenchman’s laugh, his all-encompassing passion? Will he truly never hear a single accentuated word of humor, of reassurance, of wisdom from the foreign volunteer?

He will never again lay his eyes upon Lafayette, never again wonder about the significance of his affectionate terms, never again feel his warm lips upon his cheeks.

He nearly chokes with the sudden, violent influx of melancholy that sinks its grip into him. Perhaps he will not have the luxury of spending a single night in denial either, after all.

The chair under his fingers creaks once more.

“Do not presume to understand the regard with which I hold the Marquis, Alexander,” he snaps coldly, ignoring the slip of the verb tense, and can only half-regret the sharpness of his tone as Alexander flinches minutely.

While still unwilling to unleash his anger upon the man whose heart must be as broken –if not more– as his, Washington will neither let his desolation be undermined by such ignorant words. With a curt wave of his hand, he sighs.

“Dismissed.” He sits down at his desk, dropping the list upon it and shifting his gaze to the charts spread out on the surface. Coward of him, perhaps, to pretend to focus upon a piece of paper rather than Alexander’s all too expressive eyes.

If Alexander attempts to disobey, he is stopped by John’s hand on his shoulder, pulling him back and towards the exit. They take their leave in silence.

Washington is relieved, expelling another, louder sigh as he sets his hands atop the wooden piece of furniture. He fists them a couple of times, feeling the anger bubbling up to the surface.

And, in a sudden fit of rage, he swipes at the content on his desk, sending papers, maps, ink pot, quills, and a half-filled cup of water crashing to the ground. He stands abruptly, and with a roar, kicks the crate that serves as a desk, sending it tumbling a few feet away.

The pain in his foot is both welcomed and satisfying. But it’s not quite yet enough.

So he lifts his chair, and it too is sent flying across the tent. The loud crack it emits as it hits one of the tent’s iron poles serves to soothe his nerves, if only slightly.

The soldiers in the surrounding tents are either too tired or smart enough to leave him and his ruckus uninterrupted. God help them should they attempt an entrance.

God help anyone who dares to cross his path as he exits his tent as well. Luckily for all parties involved, the grounds are deserted. No more campfires, only smoking ashes. No muffled laughs slipping out of dimly lit tents. Either his soldiers are fast asleep, or they are staring at the inside canvas of their tents.

Were he to head West of their camp site, Washington would find the only lit tents to belong to the medical corp. The pained moans of his wounded soldiers faintly reach his ears, and he knows he will need to assess their states. But he will do so in a few hours, doubtful that the few doctors on hand would appreciate the distraction while taking care of their patients.

Instead, he walks East without purpose in slow, heavy steps. The cooling September air is a relief to his constricted lungs. The smell of drying leaves from the trees surrounding the clearing reminds him of Mount Vernon in autumn.

How he wishes to see his home once again, to forget all about this blasted war, to forget all about his failures, his guilt, his anger and grief. To forget all about his worst nightmare having come to life.

But does he therefore wish to forget about Lafayette? To make the pain of the loss disappear for the price of never knowing the Marquis? Would he trade the last six months of the Frenchman’s presence in his life for peace of mind and heart?

He stops in front of a tent, implicitly knowing to whom it belongs. Or perhaps it’s the sounds that emit from it that catch his attention.

He wonders if he is the only one to hear the heart-wrenching sobs pouring out of the General’s chief of staff and the soothing hushes of his companion.

Washington continues his aimless trek across the camp, occasionally looking up at the stars in a futile effort to chase away the traitorous and unwelcomed tears stubbornly forming his in eyes.

* * *


	6. Assumptions Proven Wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! I'm posting a second chapter this week, in honor of Halloween! Not only is this holiday my absolute favorite, but given that 2020 has cancelled everything so far (aka no Halloween parties or celebrations or whatnots) and most of us are hopefully safe indoors, might as well read ;)
> 
> So, we're finally reaching the part that first popped into my head when I imagined this story, and it only took... a ridiculous amount of words to actually get to the point -well, the BEGINNING of the point. Ehe.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> (Warning: light hurt ahead)

* * *

_Previously:_

_But when he feels the unmistakable end of a well-sharpened blade touch his throat, tilting his head back, he compels himself to crack open his eyes again, staring up at the enemy for what he knows will be the very last time. It does not matter that his throat constricts at the thought of speaking, but Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette, proud volunteer in General George Washington’s Continental Army, will not go down silently._

_He will not let his last thoughts be left unheard._

_“F-Freedom for America... Freedom for France...”_

_A sharp pain, and blissful silence._

**

_Washington continues his aimless trek across the camp, occasionally looking up at the stars in a futile effort to chase away the traitorous and unwelcomed tears stubbornly forming his in eyes._

* * *

The second time Lafayette regains consciousness, he is instantly overwhelmed by pain. There is barely any space for his confusion amidst the agony that invades his every nerve. He can faintly wonder whether the existence of Hell has just been proven to him, for nothing else could explain such a feeling of being burned alive.

Perhaps he screams, although he is unsure if his vocal cords even respond to the onslaught of white searing pain coursing through his body. He wills his eyes to open a fraction, only to be greeted by a blur of red and white.

_Demons?_

Another cry is possibly torn from his aching throat as the pain gathers to a boiling point in his leg. He forces his limbs to move, to escape whatever is causing his indescribable suffering, but he is unable to do more than tremble as would a leaf in the wind. Or a leaf crumbled under a heavy boot.

He prays to God to make it all stop; it is too much. He prays for any deity willing to listen. He prays for someone, anyone – _George, Alex, John_ – to help him, to wake him from this nightmare, to make the pain stop.

_Pitié!_

The smell of iron is putrid, the voices of the demons around him melting together incomprehensibly. Surely, his flesh is getting torn away from his body inch by inch, his blood drained drop by drop. He swears his limbs are being sawed into by demonic claws.

He is not long for this underworld; he is certain of it. He is not meant to survive this torture, what human could? But if the Scripture is to be believed, the pain will be eternal.

He finds himself wishing for the sweet relief of oblivion, begging for forgiveness, hoping against all odds that he will suddenly awake to find himself back in France, in the field behind his family’s old summer home in Versailles, under the large apple tree. Perhaps Alexander will join him there, perhaps Washington will be waiting as well. Perhaps even John and Hercules will visit one day too.

There is wetness on his face that is not blood. Blood feels thicker, he knows. It is entirely possible that the last sound he emits before finally succumbing to the seemingly unending agony and falling into the blissful darkness is a wretched sob for the life he leaves behind.

* * *

_Two days after the battle_

The third time Lafayette wakes, it’s with a sharp gasp, immediately followed by a choked cry of pain. He blinks quickly enough to rid the fog from his eyes.

The sight that greets him serves not to enlighten him.

It takes him a few minutes to sit up, out of breath as it makes him. He looks around. Wherever he is, it is dark and cool, made of stone. The only source of light shines through a sliver high on the opposite wall, similar to a castle’s arrowslit. The room, or perhaps cellar from the looks of it, is rather large, yet empty apart from what must be a pot in the corner. There are pieces of what he thinks might be straw on the hard, cold cobblestones. There are no windows, and the one wooden door at the other end of the room, above three short steps, sports no handle.

He attempts to fold his legs under him to stand, but another sharp pain steals the breath from his lungs, this time originating from his leg. He inhales sharply as the memories of the battle rapidly assault his brain.

He’d been shot in the calf, in some moment or another. He’d seen John, ordered Alexander to leave, and returned for the unruly column. Then...

Then there had been an explosion –his ears ringing, his heartbeat loud and terrified, his right shoulder impaled. After that, it becomes unclear. Somehow, he had survived. He had been found.

He turns his gaze to the shoulder he somewhat recalls had hosted a large piece of splintered wood. It is now heavily bandaged, which then brings attention to the fact that he is undressed from the waist up, another bandage encircling his midsection. The heated pain on his left side informs him that he is probably sporting a burn or a gash.

Most importantly, however, is how he is shackled at the wrists. A heavy chain with a lock at the middle connects his bound hands together, yet allows about an arm’s length of movement. The iron bracelets, each adorned with a small keyhole, give only a slight leeway, able to slide about an inch up his forearm.

He gently tests his restraints’ strength while careful not to jostle his injured shoulder. He is dismayed but unsurprised to find them properly solid.

Continuing his observations, he notices that he is barefoot, his breeches are torn and stained with dark, dried blood, particularly on his left leg, where his calf, too, is bandaged. His entire body aches with soreness, his head pounds heavily, and his throat is parched. Oddly enough, his two injured limbs only throb dully. The bitter taste on his tongue makes him wonder if he was given laudanum in his unconscious state.

He was found, yes. Treated, yes. But by whom, there is only one answer that comes to mind as the sound of chains echo in the cellar-like room.

Flashes of red swim behind his eyes, a cold, steel blade at his throat. He shakes his head to clear the thoughts away, causing a few strands of auburn hair to brush against his temples –he is idly surprised to realize his ribbon has survived the entire ordeal enough to continue to hold most of his hair back in its braid. Although his white wig is nowhere to be seen.

He swallows down the instinctual panic as he must face the reality of his situation; he has become a prisoner of the British Army.

What were the odds of some British soldier spotting his uniform and making the decision to have him transported among their own wounded? Lafayette is fully aware that it is commonplace for both armies to take prisoners, although he is more familiar with the Continental Army’s way of doing so: by treating all captives humanely. From what he has heard of the Crown’s ways, they tend to demand ransoms for the higher ranks, while the others...

Well, they are rarely seen again.

Morbidly, he sighs in slight relief for the fact that his status as a French Marquis and Major General under Washington’s command will most likely serve to spare his life for a price –perhaps a steep one, but he’ll gladly repay Washington for his freedom.

 _Washington_. He wonders if the ransom has been sent out already, if his General has been made aware of his living status. And what of Alexander? What of John? Are they alive?

_They must be._

How large had the explosion been? Could it have reached his friends? He doesn’t know. Everything had turned black so suddenly, he could not feel the ground, could not tell which way was up or down. Everything had directed towards pain and fear.

He swallows thickly, chasing away the memories to remain calm. It will not do to lose himself on what is already in the past. Which brings forth another question: How much time has passed since the battle ended? Will he be freed soon?

_If at all?_

Another spike of fear arises at the thought. Maybe Washington will not pay for his life. _Non_ , he would not leave Lafayette at the hands of the enemy. That’s absurd. All he must do now is have patience, and keep his guard up.

Keeping his guard up, as it turns out, is easier said than done, especially when his body is demanding rest to heal. He suspects the laudanum he may or may not have been made to ingest is not helping his attempts at remaining awake and alert.

He is startled awake by the sound of a heavy metallic ‘clank’, followed by a loud creak of wood. Carefully, Lafayette sits up as he did previously, gritting his teeth as his body protests the movement once more. He deduces that whatever might have been given to him earlier, it has worn off.

The door opens, and he winces at the sudden onslaught of light. Two British soldiers step in, one with a lantern in hand, the other with a chair. Both of them wear –in Lafayette’s humble opinion– distasteful redcoats. Although, as they near and as his eyes adjust, the Frenchman notices that one’s coat lapels, sides, and sleeves are adorned with V-like metal plaques. The other’s is shorter, but is decorated with golden epaulettes and fringes, similar to the ones Lafayette has been bestowed with.

He can deduce that he is not the only soldier in the room to possess a high rank, therefore the British soldiers must be here to conclude business. However, he is discomfited by the fact that both soldiers are clearly older than him –a feat that isn’t hard to achieve, but nevertheless.

The one with the longer coat is tall, broad shouldered, not unlike his friend Hercules. His facial features are asymmetrical, adorned with a few small scars, the bones forming his jaw squared and strong, his eyes starring sharply at Lafayette.

The one with the epaulettes seems to be closer to his own height, his figure more slender but still muscular. His visage, while more regal and smoother than the other soldier’s, still reflects experience. His eyes express a careful intelligence that unsettle Lafayette.

The Marquis attempts to cross his arms in order to make himself seem more confident, but his right shoulder prevents him from doing so, reminding him instead that he is currently most vulnerable, wounded, in a state of undress, chained and unable to stand.

Setting his discomfort aside for the sake of appearing unbothered and calm, Lafayette watches silently as the soldier with the longer coat settles the chair a few feet away from his spot on the floor. However, it is the one with the epaulettes that sits down while the other stands tall next to his superior.

Unlike Alexander, Lafayette knows when to hold his tongue when the situation demands it. And, considering his weakened state and current status as a prisoner of war, he wisely decides to wait for his captors to commence the conversation.

He cannot help the chill that descends along his spine as his eyes meet the sitting soldier’s; he blames his state of undress and blood loss rather than the cold stare he encounters.

“How are you faring with the pain, Major General?” Lafayette nearly startles at the sudden question. The man’s voice is calm and composed, deep but not as baritone and smooth as Washington’s.

Lafayette hesitates to answer, torn between stubbornly remaining silent, thereby risking the enemy’s wrath, or be his polite self and facilitate the transaction.

He weights his options for a few seconds, before leaning towards politeness.

“It is bearable,” he answers cautiously, noting how hoarse his voice is. He clears his throat, once again reminded of how thirsty he is.

As if reading his mind, Epaulettes –as Lafayette has now decided to nickname him for the time being– reaches for his hip, unclipping his flask and handing it to Lafayette. The Frenchman regards it curiously for a couple seconds before accepting it with a thankful nod.

His chains clank together as he extends his left arm. He uncaps the metal flask, and cannot help but admire the shapeless yet intricate pattern engraved onto its front.

He nearly chokes as he carefully sips what he realizes to be whiskey –not that he is displeased by that content. The burn doesn’t quite soothe his throat, but it does pleasantly warm his insides and soften the edges of his smaller aches.

He hands the flask back with a quiet ‘thank you’. He is French, after all, and so far, his enemy has been courteous as well. Not to mention, they are no longer on the battlefield; there is no need for aggressive hatred.

“I suspect you have already come to the conclusion as to your presence here?” Epaulettes prompts, swiftly getting to the matter at hand.

Lafayette nods, straightening his back. “You will ask for a ransom for my safe return to the Continental Army.”

“Indeed, that would be the logical assumption,” the British soldier –perhaps a Major General as well– confirms with a tone Lafayette judges to be somewhat condescending.

There is an odd pause, which Lafayette finds disquieting. Obviously, the man has more to say, which can either be further details on the procedures of exchange, or something else less reassuring.

“However,” Epaulettes continues as predicted, “In light of the circumstances, your stay with us will be extended until further notice.”

Lafayette’s heart seizes in panic. What does that mean? Does he mean to say Lafayette must remain a prisoner?

“What circumstances?” He is proud of the relative evenness of his voice. His accent, however, is thick with apprehension.

“You have been identified as Major General Lafayette, General Washington’s right-hand man,” Epaulettes states, the tiniest upward pull of his lips the only giveaway of his satisfaction, “Therefore your presence has become of the utmost interest to us.”

Cold dread settles in his veins, his pulse jumping at the ominous declaration. He sees no point in specifying that he is not exactly Washington’s right-hand man, but rather his confidant. “O-Oh? Why might that be?”

He can make a logical assumption as to why, surely. But he is stalling for a solution to come to mind, _anything_ to turn this situation around.

Epaulettes leans in his seat, his gaze piercing Lafayette in its intensity. “A man of your position, you must surely hold valuable information. Perhaps crucial, as it may.”

Sweat begins to gather on the back of the young Frenchman’s neck, his eyes widening minutely at the implication. However, outrage is what manifests as he grounds out, “I will not betray my _Général_ ’s confidence.”

Epaulettes hums, once again sounding condescending. He remains silent for half a minute before leaning back in his chair, almost seeming bored with the situation. “What is your name?”

Lafayette frowns in annoyed confusion, wondering if he’s misheard. “ _Mon nom?_ For what purpose do you ask? You have already stated your knowledge of my identity.”

The way the older soldier’s eyes sharpen makes every muscle in Lafayette’s body tense. The man clucks his tongue. “How are you faring with the pain, Major General Lafayette?”

His gut begins to churn in apprehension. Apprehension of what, he isn’t sure. “You have inquired that of me before,” he answers slowly, leaning back slightly without thinking.

“Indeed,” the British soldier agrees in a tone too casual to be anything but, “However, I would like you to remember your previous answer so that you may reconsider it in a moment.”

Epaulettes doesn’t take his eyes off the Frenchman, even as he gestures with a vague motion of his fingers from the standing soldier towards Lafayette.

And suddenly, the second soldier, who until now had remained motionless and silent, descends upon Lafayette with the velocity of a striking cobra, pulling Lafayette up by his chain.

Lafayette cries out as his arms are forcibly raised above his head, pain erupting sharply in his shoulder. His cry quickly turns into a breathless gasp as he is roughly dragged back towards the wall behind him. His bandaged calf scraps against the unforgiving floor, aggravating its sensitive state, forced to fold under him. He screws his eyes shut in a valiant effort to rein in the burning sensation in his shoulder.

When he is no longer being manhandled around, he cautiously opens his eyes. Only when the black spots clear from his eyesight and he can breathe again, if shallowly, does he realize that he is unable to lower his arms despite taller soldier standing in front of him once more.

Lafayette glances up through teary eyes, and discerns with sickening dread that his chain has been mounted onto a hook on the wall. He had not even noticed the ‘ornament’ earlier. His arms cannot fold down past his shoulder level, and the position pulls cruelly at his injured shoulder, making him bite his lower lip to prevent a pained whimper from escaping.

Alongside the pain, his placement opens him to any kind of attack. He is entirely defenseless, the realization of that fact terrifying.

“I trust you now understand the consequences of your refusal to cooperate, Major General,” Epaulettes states calmly, “Do you care to reconsider your answer regarding the simple subject of your name?”

Lafayette swallows thickly, blinking rapidly to gather his wits amidst the ever-increasing pain. For a brief moment, he considers satisfying their demand for his name, redundant as it may be, but he quickly dismisses the notion with a grit of his teeth.

Be it a test of his cooperation or not, Lafayette will not give them the honor of hearing his full name.

But he is suddenly angry. _Furious_. How dare they assume he’d willingly spill whatever secrets they wish to know? He is no weakling. He will not submit at the first demonstration of pain – _nor any demonstration of pain_. He will prove his belonging to the proud Continental Army, to Washington’s side.

Right then, Lafayette swears on his life and the lives of his future descendants, that he will reveal nothing of import to America’s enemies.

“ _Fils de chiens..._ ” he growls out breathlessly as he tries to stand on shaking legs to alleviate the pressure on his shoulder.

However, his bravado earns him a swift kick to his injured calf, sending him back to his knees with a choked groan, his shoulder yet again pulled. He hisses, beginning to suspect that he’s been given stitches as he feels a faint giving away under the bandages.

“I do hope you’ll wise up soon, Major General,” Epaulettes tuts as he stands, “It would be such a shame to be made to use other means to loosen your tongue.”

Lafayette doubts the man feels an ounce of remorse, but keeps quiet on his opinion, watching the two soldiers walk away and close the door behind them, basking him in near complete darkness once more. The sound of the heavy lock being slid into place evokes the imagine of his sealed fate.

The chair has been taken away, but the space it occupied a few feet in front of him somehow remains tainted with a cold reminder of what is to come. He refuses to dwell on the possibility that Washington is unaware of his location and is therefore not conducting a rescue mission, else Lafayette might lose all hope all too fast.

He spends the next few hours trying to convince himself that the pain matters not, not even when a few droplets of blood begin to seep through his shoulder’s bandages.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translations:  
>  Pitié: Mercy  
>  Mon nom: my name  
>  Fils de chiens: Son(s) of dogs


	7. Keeping Oaths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellohello!  
> Crazy week, isn't it?! I have NOT been able to focus on anything else other than the insanity of the US elections, geezus. Add to that, the pandemic, add to that, the rumors surrounding Russia, add to that, LAST NIGHT'S EPISODE OF SUPERNATURAL!! I. Am. Frayed. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you for the comments, I LOVE it when I hear your feedback, your thoughts, it helps to let me know I'm not writing this just for my lone-self :)) 
> 
> Aye, so this chapter is introducing another OC. Lemme know what you think!
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

_Three days after the battle_

Lafayette is not entirely sure how much time has passed since his captors’ introductory visit, awake as he stubbornly remains. He attempts to gauge the time according to the sliver of light’s movement and shadow, but without knowing beforehand an approximation of the time of day, his endeavor has so far proven fruitless.

So when Epaulettes and Long Coat –perhaps not the most original sobriquets– once again enter his cell, he quickly glances up to take in the light brightening up the room. The light is paler now, with a hint of blue, no orange hue from outside wall torches. Lafayette can venture the time to be in the early morning.

Suddenly much more aware of his exposed state, he shifts slightly, trying to hunch onto himself self-consciously. Lafayette’s never felt ashamed of his body before, having long since shed his sense of modesty –France has such a different view on how to treat the beauty of the human form after all–, but in his current position, he wishes he could wear some form of concealment.

“Good morning,” the Frenchman starts with false cheer, channeling his best impression of Alexander when the man is face-to-face with a certain Charles Lee.

“Are we feeling more loquacious today, Major General?” Epaulettes asks him with a smile that could easily make a child run to hide behind its mother’s skirts as he sits down on the chair Long Coat has set down.

Lafayette nods, careful not to aggravate his sore shoulders with the movement. “ _Oui oui_. I have had the time to think.” He clears his throat, “You see, I am acqu _ain_ ted with a very charming woman in France. Adrienne. We were to be _mariés_ , a long time ago.” He pauses to swallow around his dry throat.

“Is there a point to this?” Epaulettes asks, pursing his lips in impatience.

Lafayette smirks. “I have had time to think, _Monsieur_ , about the position I am in. _Vous comprenez_ , Adrienne had once put me in a similar arrangement.” He glances up at the hook and chain in emphasis. “But at least we dined together first.” 

Lafayette would have laughed at the confounded look on Epaulettes’ face had Long Coat not immediately proceeded to hit him in the jaw.

The Frenchman groans, his jaw now aching as well as his jostled shoulder. He tastes blood in his mouth, having bitten his tongue, and _Le Burin_ dances in his vision. Still, he cannot regret having told his short tale.

Alexander and John would be proud. Washington would lightly scold him for his cheek, but be quietly amused nonetheless, he is certain.

“Do you entertain your situation lightly, Major General?” The British soldier’s tone drips with danger, setting off a wave of gooseflesh along Lafayette’s skin.

“Should I not?” the Frenchman snarks in an exhale, exhaustion suddenly pulling at his consciousness again. He curses its timing.

No words are said for the next minute or possibly longer, during which Lafayette blinks slowly, his head becoming heavier than led. Then, “What is your name?”

Lafayette huffs a cheeky, but ultimately tired-sounding laugh. “Do you have a quill and paper? It is quite long.”

He receives another blow to the jaw for his impudence. He groans again, but spits out the blood gathered from his cheek this time. His vision begins to darken at the edges, when he is suddenly pulled up and viciously thrown to the ground.

He chokes on a cry as the blood-flow returns to his arms in a rush while simultaneously being crushed under his weight. Nevertheless, it is a relief to be able to lay down again. However, it is short-lived as a sharp kick is delivered to his stomach, sending him rolling to the side. He gags at the force of it, suddenly heaving.

Nothing but bile dribbles out, reminding him of the empty state of his stomach. He curls onto himself, clutching the area where he knows a bruise has already begun to form.

“I suggest you learn how to control that unruly tongue of yours, if you wish to ease your discomfort,” Epaulettes states calmly, as if he were discussing the weather.

Still busy catching his breath, Lafayette doesn’t answer, although there is a colorful flurry of insults that pass through his mind.

He doesn’t know exactly which kick sends him into unconsciousness –the seventh or eighth one perhaps–, but he welcomes the reprieve.

* * *

When next he wakes, nauseous and disoriented, head pounding and heavy, Lafayette immediately knows he is not alone. He registers the way his chest and back ache, how his face throbs and the taste of iron lingers on his tongue.

He opens his eyes just a sliver, noticing a blurred figure crouching next to his slumped form. He instinctively flinches and shuts his eyes again, his rattled mind still supplying him with the urgent information to be wary.

But no blows come.

He remains unmoving then, gathering his thoughts, recalling the previous events, sickened by them. A wave of fear washes over him at the thought of his captors and whatever upcoming treatment they might inflict upon him.

He attempts to keep his breathing slow, despite his heart picking up in its pace. The longer they think him unconscious, the longer he will be left alone. Perhaps it is cowardly of him, but at this very moment he would rather return to blissful unconsciousness.

“You are finally awake, Mr. Lafayette,” an unknown voice casually shatters his pretense, “I have been waiting for quite some time.”

With heavy dread, Lafayette cracks his eyes open. There is no reason to continue the useless farce now that this new stranger and whoever else might be observing him are aware of his state. He blinks several times, chasing away the fog from his eyes and mind.

The man watching him wears no British uniform and is unaccompanied. For the briefest second, Lafayette hopes that his rescue has arrived. However, he knows it is foolish of him to believe so.

“I am Doctor Brocklesby, co-chief physician of this camp,” the stranger informs him, his voice lilted with an English accent, pausing to carefully observe the Frenchman, “Can you understand me, Mr. Lafayette?”

Lafayette nods slowly. The turmoil in his mind calms somewhat with the knowledge that the man before him is a doctor, and that Epaulettes and Long Coat are nowhere in sight. The pain, however, remains present.

The doctor shifts to kneel. “Brace as I move you,” is the only warning Lafayette receives before finding himself firmly but carefully lifted from his sprawled position to sit, propped against the wall. He groans at the movement, his breath catching at the swollen feeling in his chest.

“Ah, yes. You might want to aim for controlled breaths, at least for the moment being,” Doctor Brocklesby advises him.

Lafayette refrains from snapping that he doubts he has much choice in the matter, given the state of him. He wonders if any of his ribs are broken, if his face is as swollen and blue as it feels. A quick survey of his mouth with his tongue informs him that all his teeth are thankfully present.

While Lafayette slowly raises his hands to prob at his nose, hissing at the stinging sensation on the bridge of it, Doctor Brocklesby reaches behind him for a large cup filled with what Lafayette assumes to be water.

The doctor hands it wordlessly to the Frenchman, who eyes it only a second before lowering his hands and accepting it. He doubts the liquid sloshing in the aluminium cup is poisoned, and at this very moment, with his throat parched, he doesn’t care if it is.

Therefore, he drinks greedily, nearly swallowing at the wrong angle and stopping at the half only as the doctor cautions him to do so. He sets the cup down for the moment.

“Your ribs are without a doubt heavily bruised,” the man tells him, “Perhaps broken. It would do you no good to engage in a coughing fit. Let’s see now.”

The next second finds Lafayette wheezing in pain as the doctor swiftly and expertly probesnever at his ribcage. The Frenchman attempts to draw back reflexively, but is held steady by the British doctor.

“Do hold still,” Brocklesby grumbles, digging his fingers once more into the gasping Marquis’ skin before letting his hand drop. “Luckily, there does not seem to be any breaks, which considerably reduces the risks of your organs being damaged.”

“For–” Lafayette coughs, the chest spasm further aggravating the soreness in his bones, “Forgive me if I do not, how you say, leap with joy.” His voice is uncomfortably nasally. He hopes the swelling in his nose decreases soon, if only to facilitate his breathing.

Doctor Brocklesby huffs amusedly, “I sincerely doubt you could, Mr. Lafayette, given your current state.”

Lafayette surprises himself by breathing out a small laugh at the odd similarity of this doctor’s humor to Alexander’s –his _petit_ _lion_ would surely be making cynical comments as well in this situation. He blames it on the exhaustion, and quickly chases away the thought of his beloved friend from his mind, lest he dwell upon it and despair for his presence.

“Perhaps you are right, _Docteur_ ,” he concedes lightly. It should do him no harm to keep things civil with the other man. Hopefully.

Brocklesby hums, and proceeds to unwrap the bandages from Lafayette’s midsection. “I will ask you to observe for any signs of blood in your mouth, nose, ears, urine, or, in the content of your stomach, should you expel it,” he instructs as he peels off the last layer of red-stained cotton. “Now, let us have a look at these burns.”

Lafayette looks down as well, watching the process and grimacing at the burns painting his left side. They are roughly the size of his spread hand, shapeless and angry looking. Yet they are clean, devoid of any debris or dirt. The blistered skin makes him wrinkle his nose, wondering just how prominent the scars will be.

As the doctor examines him, Lafayette takes the opportunity to properly take the man in; brown hair with a few strands of grey tied in a low queue; clean shaven; thick yet elegant black eyebrows; wrinkles on his forehead, both of age and concentration; small crow’s feet on the edges of his dark, sharp eyes; round spectacles perched on a regal nose. He looks to be near his forties, should Lafayette venture a guess. His accent, eloquent and possibly Estuary English, oddly surprises him. While the Continental Army famously opposes the British Army, most redcoats he’s come across are of the Colonies, their accents from different parts of the land, but ultimately American.

Returning his focus on the doctor’s appearance, Lafayette notes that he is dressed as would any physician –lengthy sterile white apron on top of a neutral eggshell shirt and dark waistcoat–, with the exception of military boots. Not quite a soldier, then.

His medical bag lays open next to him, large rolls of bandages and various corked bottles peeking out of it.

Doctor Brocklesby makes a sound then, satisfied and approving, which Lafayette can surmise to be a good sign. He proceeds to fish out a white rag and a green bottle from his bag which he uncorks. The smell of the unnamed liquid inside is strong enough to sting the inside of Lafayette’s nostrils.

Lafayette watches warily as the bottle is then tipped generously onto the rag, the transparent liquid getting soaked into it. He knows what is about to transpire, and tells himself that this is better than being plagued with an infection. Still, he’s never had a burn such as this cleaned before –or at least not while he was aware of it.

“Hold still.”

Despite the order, Lafayette still flinches violently as Doctor Brocklesby presses the wet rag to his side, a whimper leaving him before he can help it. Reflexively, he attempts to draw his knees up to his chest to shield himself as he presses back against the wall, but the doctor’s firm hands keep him still.

The sharp pain soon vanishes, leaving behind a dull throb of stinging heat. Lafayette doesn’t realize he’s closed his eyes until he feels the soft pressure of dry cotton wrapping around his midsection.

He takes a slow, deep breath, willing himself to relax. When he looks down again, he sees the doctor cutting the fresh bandage to pin it tight.

The man’s trained hands move to his calf next, pulling the bandages there loose as well. Lafayette forces himself to look at the damage. He swallows thickly at the sight of his stitched, mangled flesh.

He can count approximately eight large threads knitted into his skin. As with his burns, the wound is otherwise clean. The skin around it is bruised, probably from where Long Coat knocked him down.

The doctor carefully examines each stitch with a brush of a finger –the delicateness of the touch surprising Lafayette. He then dips some more liquid onto the rag, giving a brief glance up at the Frenchman as a warning before he covers the wound with the soaked cloth.

Being prepared for the stabbing feeling this time, Lafayette only hisses, even as this area pains him more than the burns. Every wipe, no matter how gentle, sends a spike a pain up his leg all the way to his hip.

He wonders if it will curse him with a limp.

He glares at the stitches until they are covered by a yet another fresh roll of bandages. Back in Washington’s camp, one could not afford to use new sets of cotton for a soldier’s wounds, lacking in supplies as they are. The British, with the support of the Crown behind them, have no such issues.

“By any chance, _Docteur_ ,” he says with a relatively steady voice despite the minute trembles that have taken over his body, “You would not have kept the _balle_ – ah, the bullet, that has gifted me with such fine _couture_?”

Brocklesby finishes to pin the bandages in place with a questioning frown. “I have not.”

Lafayette breathes out an exaggerated sigh. “Shame. It would have made for a pretty necklace. Now how will my people believe my adventures without such proof?”

The doctor huffs, looking up at Lafayette’s mirthful smirk with amused incredulity. “I’m certain you will find another way.”

He then stands, moving to kneel on Lafayette’s other side, reaching for his shoulder. As with the other two previous wounds, he unwraps the bandages, which are revealed to have turned red on the layer the closest to his skin.

This time, the doctor makes a tutting sound. Lafayette risks a glance, but immediately averts his eyes. As he’d suspected earlier, a few of the stitches have come loose, giving way to his torn flesh. The blood around it has long since dried, but it makes for a gruesome sight.

“I’m afraid these will need replacement,” Brocklesby tells him with a shake of his head, then mutters lower, “How careless.”

Lafayette remains silent, dread settling in his chest, as he watches the doctor fish out his sewing kit from the bag as well as a couple new rags, and, after a moment’s pause, a flat leather stick. He hands the latter to Lafayette, whose brow furrows in confusion.

Brocklesby gives him a pitying look. “I’d rather you didn’t bite off your tongue, Mr. Lafayette,” he says neutrally, “Nor render me deaf, for that matter.”

He patiently waits for Lafayette to understand his meaning. The Frenchman swallows the lump in his throat as he slowly places the mouthguard in his mouth and loosely bites down on it.

The doctor slips a thick thread into an even thicker needle, tying it tightly before dipping the entire length into the green bottle. He positions himself carefully, gently holding Lafayette against the wall with his forearm firmly pressed on the Frenchman’s upper chest. His left hand takes a hold of the younger man’s bicep, holding it tightly against the wall as well, the movement making Lafayette wince.

“Would you like me to list the steps as I go?”

The question catches Lafayette off-guard. He blinks, and promptly nods. He is grateful for the man’s suggestion, hoping this will distract him, if only slightly.

“Alright,” Brocklesby starts, “I will begin by applying some of the solution around the stitches, as I did with your other injuries, as well as into the open parts of the wound.”

He tips the green bottle for the third time since this examination started, and dabs it on Lafayette’s half-open wound. The pain is much sharper than the previous two combined, gradually becoming worse as the liquid drips into the Marquis’ flesh.

Lafayette gasps, shutting his eyes tightly, and biting down on the leather harshly. His trembling increases.

“Inhale and exhale on my word, if you can,” the doctor instructs him, “It will facilitate the insertion of the needle. On three, inhale and hold. One, two, three–”

Lafayette inhales sharply, almost choking as the needle pierces his raw skin, emerging a few inches farther up.

“Exhale and hold.”

Lafayette tries to follow the instructions, he truly does, but when the doctor pulls the thread through his flesh, he is unable to hold his cry, his chest spasming from the pain.

Vague memories of a white room and incomprehensible voices and blood in his mouth and so much fear shimmer in his mind. Brocklesby doesn’t reprimand him for his inability to follow his orders, simply continues to direct his breathing while he stitches him up.

Each prick of the needle causes white flashes to appear behind the shaking Frenchman’s eyelids, each pull of the thread drawing a whimper from behind the mouthguard. Pearls of sweat slide down his temples and forehead, a few drops of saliva make their way past his split lower lip and down his chin. Through sheer will however, he keeps the tears at bay, letting them sting in his eyes rather than taint his cheeks.

All throughout, Doctor Brocklesby pronounces each movement for Lafayette to focus on as he closes him up with steady hands. The older man’s strength is unwavering as he holds the Frenchman up and prevents him from moving too much.

When the time comes to pull out the old stitches and tighten the new ones, he places one knee atop Lafayette’s thigh to keep him from jerking away. Nausea threatens to draw Lafayette under, the smell of blood and whatever is in the green bottle almost too much for his olfactory senses to bear on top of his light-headedness.

He is barely aware of the doctor notifying him of the final step. He only registers the warning once more liquid is made to coat his mutilated flesh.

Perhaps he briefly loses consciousness then, or perhaps his shoulder has gone numb, but when next his eyes flutter open, he is greeted by a blurred whiteness –the rag.

His nostrils flare sharply at the acidic smell he now associates to the green bottle’s content. It overwhelms him as the cold, wet rag is pressed to the cut on his nose. He nearly hits his head on the wall as he recoils from it, only then aware of the doctor’s hand cradling the back of his head, holding him upright.

“There we are, it’s over,” the doctor mutters with an oddly soft tone as he gently bedaubs the cut.

Lafayette has half a mind to snap at the man for talking to him as though he were a toddler, yet he refrains himself from doing so, immensely grateful for the gentleness of his treatment so far. He knows the man in front of him could have simply not spoken a single word and gone to treat him with more pain than necessary.

Lafayette is, after all, an enemy of the Crown. Doctor Brocklesby, however, has put the effort of care into his work, a fact Lafayette will not forget.

He glances down to his right, noticing the new addition of fresh bandages around his shoulder. It seems he did lose consciousness after all. Embarrassment bubbles up in his stomach at the knowledge. What kind of soldier faints from a few puncture marks?

Brocklesby reaches out to take out the mouthguard, setting it aside. As he wipes his hands of the Frenchman’s blood, Lafayette moves his tongue and shifts his jaw, feeling sore.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Lafayette?” the doctor asks, handing him the cup of water. Lafayette takes it with a tired sigh, drinking a few sips.

How is he feeling? Pained. Exhausted. Homesick. Scared for his life.

“Famished,” he settles on, his throat raw –which he ashamedly assumes to have been caused by his own pained cries prior to falling unconscious.

His answer remains true, however, as he had not noticed his hunger until now, the adrenaline having pumped through his veins for so long. The pain and fear had effectively cut off his appetite as well, between the fits of exhaustion.

But now, with the pain in his limbs faded to a more manageable throb and in the company of someone he judges to want him no actual harm, his need for sustenance finally makes itself known.

“Naturally,” the doctor acknowledges, reaching into a different pocket of his bag, “You have been in and out of consciousness for three days following the operations to remove the bullet and spear-like log from your body.” He pulls out a small cob of bread and a red apple, handing them to Lafayette. “I will advise my superiors that a larger quantity of nutriments is needed for your recovery.”

Lafayette, knowing that swallowing his food whole will only upset his stomach, begins chewing on the bread slowly, savoring the taste, no matter how stale.

He watches as the doctor begins cleaning up his equipment. He wants to ask if there is any way to help him escape, or even to ask him to demand his captors’ restraint on any future beatings. But he is not so foolish as to expect the man to risk his life, possibly his family –if he has any–, for him.

The thought of using his chains to take the doctor hostage flashes through his tired mind, but he dismisses it instantly. He is not so cold-blooded. He has killed plenty of soldiers, but only in the heat of the battlefield. Brocklesby in a man of medicine, a fair one at that, not a man of war. He seems to put health above politics –or at least, that’s the impression Lafayette has made of the older man so far.

He will therefore not be as ungrateful and cruel as to threaten the doctor’s life.

“Thank you,” Lafayette eventually says after finishing the bread, voice quiet but earnest.

Brocklesby looks up briefly, his expression one of astonishment, before resuming his task. “What do you thank me for? I was sent to ensure your survival for the purpose of extracting information from you at a later time. I doubt you will thank me upon my next visit.”

The brutal honesty does not deter Lafayette. He is well aware of the reason why he is allowed such thorough medical treatment, but nevertheless, he doubts Epaulettes dictated for Brocklesby to be as gentle about it.

“I may have delusions because of the loss of blood,” he starts, making the doctor huff a laugh, “But I would not offer my gratitude if I believed it undeserved.”

Doctor Brocklesby pauses then, turning his focus on Lafayette’s open expression of genuine appreciation before flicking his eyes down to his shackles. He sighs, gesturing for Lafayette to extend his arms towards him.

Curious but trusting, the Frenchman does so, watching as the older man gently pulls the shackles back as far up as they can go, exposing the broken skin beneath. Lafayette’s eyebrows jump to his forehead.

“I had not noticed,” the Marquis breathes, astonished at his own lack of awareness, “I did not feel–”

“Considering the importance of your other injuries, I am not surprised,” the doctor says, once again uncorking the green bottle and pulling out yet another clean rag.

This time, Lafayette doesn’t flinch nor does he make a single noise at the burn. Compared to what he’s gone through earlier, his wrists are after all but a sting. He offers the doctor a small smile of thanks, knowing the man had most probably not been instructed to look after the lacerating effect of his iron bonds.

“When will I be able to run through the fields of flowers and throw rocks into the rivers again, _Docteur?_ ” he asks with a light-hearted tone despite his actual apprehension, picking up the apple while Brocklesby packs up the rest of his materials.

The first bite is like heaven on his tongue, the sweetness a relief to his barbed nerves.

The older man hums in thought, closing his bag and standing slowly. He looks down at Lafayette. “The burns should begin scaring within a week. The bullet wound will take longer, weeks, if not months. You would do well to avoid standing for as long as you can.”

He pauses, his lips pulling into a frown. “However, the damage done to your shoulder was more extensive. Luckily, the projectile missed your collarbone by a few inches, else the bone might have shattered and never healed properly.”

The thought of his bone forever damaged, fragments scattered around alongside pieces of wood below his skin, is enough to drop Lafayette’s teasing smile.

“Nevertheless,” Brocklesby continues, “while I was thorough in removing every splinter and piece of shrapnel I could find, it is possible some remain. Should the flesh continue to be reopened, infection will inevitably settle in, at which point it would spread and you may lose your arm, if not your life.”

Throughout the detailing of his conditions, Lafayette has unknowingly laid his hand over his injured shoulder and tensed his sore muscles.

He licks his chapped lips, struggling to find the words to demonstrate his fabricated nonchalance, and clears his throat.

“Ah. _Oui_ , _je vois_ ,” he says, voice obviously nonplussed, “As it would be a waste of your time should I perish, I will therefore do my utmost best to keep from destroying your work on me.”

Brocklesby regards him with a tilt of his head, appraising the French soldier. He eventually sighs. “And I will advise my superiors to avoid mistreating your damaged areas.”

“Would it be too much to ask of you to request they avoid... _damaging_ me at all?” Lafayette quips, managing to produce a croaked smile.

Brocklesby offers a tight, if perhaps regretful smile in return. “I will see you soon, Mr. Lafayette.”

“I look forward to it, _Docteur_ ,” Lafayette shoots back, cheekily waving goodbye with his left hand.

When he left alone once again, Lafayette finishes his apple, and hopes the doctor will be able to convince his captors to increase his rations.

As he drinks the rest of his water, he ponders over Brocklesby's parting words. While not having been uttered in a threatening way, they promise only one reason for the man to return.

Lafayette shivers, and closes his eyes with a long sigh, sleep delicately pulling at him.

As his mind quietens, he is unable to stop the thought of his friends from wandering in his head, wondering what they are doing, if they live, if they believe him long dead, if they grieve for him.

His worries manifest in the shape of nightmares; the vision of Alexander and John’s unseeing, unblinking eyes as they lay unmoving on the battlefield while Epaulettes stands above them with a bloodied sword is enough to make his sleep restless.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translations:  
>  mariés: wed  
>  Monsieur: Sir  
>  Vous comprenez: You understand  
>  Le Burin: Caelum (chisel-like constellation)  
>  Docteur: Doctor  
>  balle: bullet


	8. Needs Ignored, Needs Spoken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all, my apologies for the late update. It's been a rough week in our household because we had to put our dog to sleep. The loss got me feeling really low. I couldn't read not write a single word nor edit the chapters already drafted. Add to that my school deciding to pile on research paper after research paper..  
> I still haven't been able to continue the story despite the outline mostly done, but at least I managed to edit this chapter to have it ready to be uploaded. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy. Feel free to leave a comment or kudos if you do.

* * *

_Previously:_

_Lafayette shivers, and closes his eyes with a long sigh, sleep delicately pulling at him._

_As his mind quietens, he is unable to stop the thought of his friends from wandering in his head, wondering what they are doing, if they live, if they believe him long dead, if they grieve for him._

_His worries manifest in the shape of nightmares; the vision of Alexander and John’s unseeing, unblinking eyes as they lay unmoving on the battlefield while Epaulettes stands above them with a bloodied sword is enough to make his sleep restless._

* * *

News of Lafayette’s death travels fast throughout the camp, plunging it in a particularly somber atmosphere. The Marquis was well-liked among the men, and the lack of his boisterous voice is poignant, especially after the battle that nearly cost them the war.

While his French origin and aristocrat status had originally earned him the scorn and mistrust of many, Lafayette had quickly wormed his way into the majority of his fellow soldiers’ good graces by his sheer will and devotion to their cause. The fact that it quickly became known that the Frenchman offered his allegiance without demand for pay and even often dug into his own pockets to scavenge some Madeira –from where exactly, none of them knew– to then share with them had certainly helped sway their opinions as well.

They hold a ceremony for their fallen comrades a couple days later, a day before they are bound for Lancaster. It is no grand celebration, and many of the wounded soldiers who are unable to stand must remain in the medical tents to be treated. Watered-down wine is distributed around, but the taste of it is bitter on the grieving soldiers’ tongues.

Washington gives the eulogy, the words almost generic and spoken with an unwavering tone. At first glance, the General may sound emotionless and held together, as should a man of his position be, but to those close enough to see, anger and grief at the loss of his soldiers adorn his features. However, to those who know what a certain foreign soldier meant to the Commander-in-Chief, the heartbreak resounds in his voice and in his every word.

Soldiers gather close around him, out of reverence and support and their own need for reassurance.

Alexander, for one, feels no need to stand near Washington to hear the man’s words of respect for those lost in the battle. In fact, he stands far to the side, saluting when required before leaving as soon as it is acceptable to. He has no desire to linger among the men who will discuss the lives of friends they will never see again.

He certainly has no desire to send a prayer to a God who would too soon and too easily rip away the souls of good men.

He is relieved when it is announced that Washington’s main troops will be moving further along into the state of Pennsylvania, as it will surely provide him a distraction from his grim thoughts. Many soldiers –those with severed limbs and low chances of recovery– remain in Chester.

Alexander has barely slept since the end of the battle, too busy occupying himself with random tasks all throughout their temporary camps as Washington has yet to require his quill. Nevertheless, he ensures to keep his mind busy at all times, lest he let unwanted thoughts slip in.

However, he comes to a standstill when faced with Tilghman handing him Lafayette’s few belongings and clothes, found among the unclaimed materials; in other words, the dead soldiers’ belongings, left to be redistributed.

Heart in his throat, Alexander thanks his fellow aide for the thoughtful gesture of preserving Lafayette’s personal articles. He promptly and with no small amount of cowardice defers the task of deciding what is to be done with them to John, who quietly decides to simply transport the late Frenchman’s possessions to their next locations until Alexander sees it fit to sort through them.

They remain some time in Lancaster, both to rest and attempt to secure supplies for the upcoming winter.

Tents are erected once more, wooden cabins are moved in, and the war continues.

Alexander’s skills once again come in demand, and so he sits with his portable desk to write Washington’s letters to Congress, to other generals and tacticians, and to the damned Congress.

Alexander’s first week since Brandywine consists of writing, correcting, and rewriting missive after missive without prompting from Washington until either his hand cramps, or the candle burns out. He takes on the other aides’ tasks as well, for the sake of remaining occupied.

He eats at John’s insistence, and takes short breaks on Washington’s orders. Sleep, however, cannot be enforced by anyone except his own body’s exhaustion.

When sleep does forcibly claim him, he’ll awaken with a gasp, fire and smoke in his eyes and heart thundering as loud as a cannon in his ears, Lafayette’s name a rasp on his lips. He will turn to his right, expecting to see the Frenchman peacefully sleeping, only to be painfully reminded that his dream is in truth a memory. He will shake with grief, attempt to muffle his sobs, and then leave the room –a maintenance closet at most, given its size– he and John share in the little house Washington and his aides have taken occupancy to wander aimlessly in search of anything to do.

Sometimes, John will wake as well, either from his own nightmares or by the force of Alexander’s trembles. He will hold Alexander tightly and whisper soft but ultimately empty reassurances until the raven-haired man calms down.

During the day, there are no attempts to make conversation between the General and his right-hand man past their work-related issues. Alexander does not ignore Washington, and neither does Washington ignore Alexander, but their once carefully-built bond is buried for the time being –perhaps permanently, as though Lafayette had been the link to hold it together.

Yet Alexander notices the look in the General’s eyes; the compassion, the pity. He hates it. He angers over it, but not at Washington, for when his mind is left unattended, Alexander delivers blows of anger and guilt onto himself.

He couldn’t save Lafayette.

It is his fault his beloved friend, his lover, is dead.

He is to blame for ripping away the man responsible for bringing light into their lives.

Thus, two weeks after Lafayette’s death, Alexander functions on his stubbornness to remain awake, dreading to be visited by visions of his late friend in his sleep. His candle nears the end of its wick as it sits in front of him on the common area table, now deserted. Still, Alexander blinks away the burn in his eyes and continues to write; Congress is not sending supplies as promised, and Alexander will be damned if he wastes time by sleeping and being weakened by nightmares instead of urging the careless pencil pushers of their so-called leaders. Washington is losing patience as well the more their rations dwindle.

Oddly enough however, the General does not take his anger out on Alexander, despite the younger soldier’s convenient proximity. The fact that Washington is holding back only serves to anger Alexander more.

He deserves to be yelled at, to be screamed at for his incompetence, for his uselessness, his failures. Doesn’t Washington understand?

Alexander has not once raised his voice since the night after the battle, when he had overtly demeaned the General’s relationship with Lafayette. He has not gotten into an argument with anyone, nor lectured any poor soul, even when their mistakes and opinions screamed to be corrected. He has no will to do so, nor the strength to ignore the echo of the Frenchman’s amused encouragement in his head.

Therefore, he remains quiet, recluse. He knows it is the grief digging its claws into him, but he sees no reason to fight it as long as it doesn’t impede on his duties as a soldier.

_Now what was he writing again?_

He blinks, the letters and words blurring together on the paper in front of him. A yawn escapes him before he can prevent it, long and jaw-stretching. He lifts a knuckle to rub the resulting tiresome tear away from the corner of his eye, mentally shaking himself to refocus.

There’s no one to comment on his apparent exhaustion; the other aides have long since gone to bed at Washington’s orders a couple hours ago. John had only stepped out an hour prior as well with a careful plea for Alexander to eventually get some rest.

They both know it’s less than likely that Alexander will heed his friend’s concerns, but it doesn’t stop John from trying.

Alexander sighs, leaning back in his chair as he brushes the stray locks away and behind his ear before pressing the palm of his ink-stained hands against his temples. He inhales deeply, and exhales slowly, making a small sound of disgruntlement, sounding oddly loud in the quietness of the camp’s headquarters.

The house is a modest one, only one level with a few cramped rooms shared among the aides. His and John’s is by the kitchen, right behind where he now sits. The room with the most space is, of course, attributed to the General, on the other end of the house, away from all the other aides’. The room next to his is used as a tactical room where Washington, other generals, and various high-ranking officers gather to discuss and plan.

Alexander is more often than not allowed to join in these meetings, taking notes. Before the battle of Brandywine, he would occasionally pipe in his opinion, ready to verbally fight his way into an argument. Nowadays, he simply writes down his thoughts and voices them later privately to Washington when prompted.

The common room, composed of a large wooden table with matching chairs sat around it, serves as the aides’ writing desk, as well as the meal table. Not that the meals they share have many traits to call them such, but at least the coffee is aplenty, which is all Alexander needs.

With another sigh, he sets down his quill and pulls off the ribbon keeping his unkempt queue mostly upright, letting the dark locks cascade around his shoulders, barely reaching past. He runs his fingers through them, gently untangling any loose knot. He then threads his fingers through the roots, lightly pressing his nails against his scalp above his neck, the motion soothing and reminding him of–

As if burned, Alexander quickly retracts his hands, swallowing thickly. He closes his eyes, a frown forming on his brow as he concentrates on dispersing the memories of Lafayette, of his dexterous hands, of the way he would take such glee in brushing Alexander’s hair both in and out of moments of passion, of the way he would smile like a thousand suns for no goddamn reason and it’s his goddamn fault he’s d–

“Hamilton.”

Alexander nearly jumps out of his seat in startlement, the deep baritone voice mercifully shattering the incoming ball of uncontrollable grief that had threatened to drag him under once more. He gets up on his feet by reflex to greet Washington who stands in the doorway between the common room and the corridor leading to his private bedchamber, stammering out a quick ‘Sir’.

How had he not heard the General’s heavy footsteps approach on the old and creaky wooden floorboards?

“I told you to get some rest hours ago,” Washington says disapprovingly but without real scold. After all, they both know Alexander tends to overwork.

“Yessir,” Alexander agrees, because there is no sense in denying it, “But I had yet to finish a letter.” One letter, five letters, simple semantics.

There is a moment of silence during which Alexander takes in the General’s appearance. He is not dressed for bed, not that he believes Washington actually ever wears a nightgown, but his cravat and sash are missing and his vest is partially unbuttoned, leading Alexander to guess that he’s only just thrown his blue coat back on for appearance’s sake.

“Go to sleep, Hamilton,” Washington eventually says, his tone as tired as Alexander feels.

Still, as long as he can help it, he’ll remain awake and out of reach of nightmares, or worse, loving memories.

“I am not tired, Sir,” he protests, and gestures at the half-written mess littering on the table, “And the letter for General Knox still remains to be–”

“You are running yourself ragged,” Washington cuts it, “You need to rest.” He steps forward, his stiff posture indicating his lack of patience and dismay for being once again ignored.

Alexander bristles, despite knowing that the General is right. He stands straighter, grounding out, “I am _fine_ , Sir.” Such a tone would guarantee a reprimand were he any other soldier, and perhaps it still might, but his addled brain dismisses the possibility.

Washington frowns. “Son, you need–”

“Don’t call me son,” Alexander snaps, ignoring the warning in Washington’s voice, “And with all due respect, _Sir_ , you don’t know what I need. But what I most certainly _don’t_ need is your misplaced familiarity.”

A heavy silence befalls the room, at which point the alarm bells in Alexander’s brain finally begin to ring. But something has sparked inside of him, boiling closer to the surface than it has in the two weeks since the official announcement of Lafayette’s death. He knows it’s to do with Washington calling him out for his state of well-being for the first time since.

He wants to be called out for something else. He needs to be held accountable for his fatal error, for letting Lafayette die, for abandoning him to his fate. He needs to be punished for what he did.

When Washington speaks again, his voice is calm and composed yet dangerous, a sharp contrast to Alexander’s near seething attitude. “Let’s continue this discussion in another room, Hamilton, lest we wake those who are wise enough to rest.”

A chill travels down Alexander’s spine, and he nods sharply even as Washington has already turned around and begun walking back from whence he came. Alexander follows silently, realizing how his body shakes with barely contained anger at himself.

To his surprise, Washington does not lead them into the dubbed ‘war room’, but into his personal room instead. Alexander has yet to have seen the interior of it, but manages to refrain from eyeing every detail of the place for the moment; he will _not_ lose focus.

Alexander closes the door behind him and takes a few steps into the room, keeping a respectable distance from Washington even as he braces for a verbal fight. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders exactly how broken he must be to crave this confrontation. He is certainly more than grateful for John’s support, for his soft-spoken words and gentle embraces, for the lack of judgement regarding the tears he may shed, but deep-down Alexander knows he needs to release the raging side of his grief.

One would think that to do so with their superior, the Commander of the Continental Army nonetheless, would be most foolish and pointless. But Alexander will not be satisfied with anyone else, with anyone who cannot hold their own against him.

“Tell me, then, Hamilton,” Washington starts without much preamble, standing next to his personal desk as imposing as ever despite his rare less-than-perfect form of dress.

Alexander narrows his eyes, jutting his chin in defiance, only then remembering that his hair is still untied. Too late to fix it without drawing attention to his state of unprofessionalism. “Tell you what?”

“What it is you need,” Washington clarifies, his tone neutral but edging towards something Alexander can’t quite name. “You claim I do not know what it is you need, then tell me.”

The request –not quite an order, but close– takes Alexander aback. He had expected a stern telling-off, consequences for his insubordination. He had hoped for an accusation.

He feels himself deflating, but is unwilling to do so. “I– What?”

Washington’s eyes seem to soften as he takes a step closer. “Do you believe I have not taken notice of your newfound habit of forgoing sustenance and sleep, Alexander?”

The use of his first name both soothes and inflames Alexander’s anger as it enables feelings too resemblant to the ones he carried for Lafayette to surge up unexpectedly.

“You will find I am hardly the only one to do so,” he responds dryly, “Sir.”

The arrogance of Alexander’s response doesn’t bait the General as aimed, only gains himself a low sigh.

“Certainly,” Washington acquiesces, “But have you considered the possibility that I, out of all those who surround you, would personally understand the reasons for treating yourself so carelessly?”

Alexander’s exhausted brain supplies him with the stubborn answer that no, Washington could never understand, not as a General compared to a lover. He had not been on the battlefield when the explosion had ripped Lafayette away from him. He had not smelled the fire and ashes and copper. He had not felt his heart shatter while the adrenaline was rushing through his veins.

Still, despite their confrontation on the night after the battle, Alexander holds no true blame against his commander for Lafayette’s death. The only one who should be tried for aiding in causing said death is himself, which is why he has been unable to share his guilty conscience with either John or Washington.

“I have no need for your understanding,” he therefore hisses, frowning at his own accidental child-like stubbornness, “John does so more than adequately.”

“Adequately, perhaps. But his understanding has yet to grant you slumber nor appetite,” Washington points out, “Which tells me you have not shared with him what it is you need exactly.”

Oh, how he wants to tell him. The tip of Alexander’s tongue burns with the need to do so, to demand for the General to throw the blame on him. But it will not work if Alexander is the one to throw the first stone.

His lack of response must drag on, for Washington huffs frustratingly.

“I will not insult you by making it an official order.” Washington takes off his coat, dropping it unceremoniously on the back of the desk chair, continuing with a softer tone, “I am not asking you as your commander, but as a fellow concerned soldier.”

The declaration abruptly changes the atmosphere of the conversation. A chilled heat blooms inside Alexander’s chest. He wants to demand for the General to put his coat back on, to hold onto his superior rank, and at the same time, a pressure eases from his shoulders at the newfound equal ground.

Should he have had enough sleep lately, perhaps he could have made sense of his wayward thoughts.

“You won’t even speak his name,” Alexander suddenly blurts out, his cheeks flaming red, both from anger and from holding back his despair. He hadn’t meant to say it, but it is nevertheless true, having noticed how Lafayette’s name has almost become taboo around the General.

No one will acknowledge his existence, much less his death.

A heavy silence follows Alexander’s accusation. Washington takes a step back closer to his desk, placing a palm down upon it.

“Would you have me mention him at every sunrise?” the General asks his aide, his voice thick with restraint, “Would you find it appropriate of me to speak of him every time the thought of him arises within my mind? If so, then I might as well resign my position, for the war would progress no further.”

“Then you ignore everything he has done for this war,” Alexander says sharply, “What he has done for us.”

“Of course I don’t,” Washington snaps, finally giving Alexander an ounce of satisfaction, “But I will rather continue to send a prayer to him... to Lafayette, every night before I blow out the candles, for the sake of my own sanity.”

Alexander sneers at that. “Prayers will not bring him back–”

“Don’t you think I’m aware of that?” Washington near growls, his temper finally flaring, “I need not hear the facts to bear the guilt of his death.”

Alexander blinks in surprise as Washington turns away, fists clenched, presumably to rein in his own anger. Having spent so much time in the General’s company, he knows how each death of his soldiers takes its toll on the man.

But this guilt, however, it feels more personal.

Alexander could slap himself. He has been trying to provoke Washington into bayoneting him with the blame of Lafayette’s death, when it should have been abundantly clear that it has no intention of leaving the host, and the host will not part with it either.

Sudden clarity graces his mind, followed instantly by shame.

While Alexander had had the privilege to call Lafayette his lover, Washington had considered the Frenchman as someone akin to his own son, or as close a relationship as one. Yet here Alexander is, selfishly attempting to alleviate his own grief without fully considering the General’s, a man whose mental state is far more important than his, for the sake of their nation.

The rage leaves his body in a dizzying rush, permitting the exhaustion to settle back in with a vengeance.

“It’s not your fault, Sir,” he eventually speaks up, his voice soft and tired.

Washington’s shoulders visibly slump. He slowly turns back to face the younger man. “Neither is it yours, Alexander.”

The chief of staff chokes out a laugh, sounding slightly hysterical. “Well then, you are incapable of giving me what I need.”

There is a pause, as Washington’s eyes harden in assessment and comprehension.

“Do you need me to blame you for his death, Alexander?” His question is rhetorical, with only a hint of bafflement, as though he knows Alexander enough to venture as to his reasoning. “Because I will do no such thing. I cannot, nor do I wish to.”

“Why would you not?” Alexander shoots back, truly not understanding why the General isn’t even giving the thought any consideration.

“Why would you want me to?” Washington counters calmly.

To Alexander’s absolute mortification, tears begin to well up in his eyes. He looks down, discreetly attempting to blink them away.

Finally confronted with the exact subject of what he wants, he finds that his desire to be punished doesn’t quite fit as an answer. Still, he procures what he’s been mulling over for two weeks.

“Because I– I need you to realize the reason why Gil– why Lafayette is gone,” he stammers out, his voice lacking its usual confidence. “If you recognize that the fault is mine, then I... then I can...”

“Then you can what?” Washington prompts, “You can be punished and move on?”

Alexander nods sharply before he can think of how the confirmation will portray him.

A heavy pause, and then, “War is the reason why Lafayette is gone, son,” Washington declares sternly, suddenly much closer, but nonetheless with a slight waver in his voice, “Whoever fired at him is the reason, neither us of could have predicted it.”

“But I should have been there, at his side!” Alexander raises his voice desperately, taken aback by the feeling of the dam breaking around his heart, threatening to drown it. “I should have stayed with him, I should have contested his order! He was already wounded, but I didn’t stop him and now he is dead and it is my fault and I should have–”

He chokes, breath catching as he furiously bites down a sob, only for the air to leave his lungs entirely as he finds himself enveloped by strong arms.

His heart comes to an abrupt halt as he realizes that Washington has stepped forward to embrace him in an unprecedented but somehow not unwelcomed manner. Another crack resonates from the barrier protecting some unknown emotion.

“Were it so simple, I would ask you not to think such thoughts,” Washington says, his voice now a deep and soothing rumble in Alexander’s ear. “But please, Alexander, do not let yourself be devoured by them. I could not bear to lose you as well.”

The smell of Washington’s cologne, a pleasant mix of citrus, bergamot, and rosemary, settles around Alexander like a warm blanket. He takes a deep yet shaky inhale of it. Never before has he been able to smell it so clearly. He recalls occasionally catching a gentle trace of it on Lafayette when he would return from the General’s tent after spending the evening or the night at his side.

The memory only makes him tremble more as he tentatively slumps into the embrace, forehead pressing against Washington’s shoulder.

“It is my fault, it is all my fault–” Alexander rasps out in a breath, the lack of sleep and overall mental strain breaking down his filter. “I’m the bastard immigrant who let Gilbert die, I– I may as well have pulled the trigger on him–”

“Alexander, stop.” Washington’s large hand comes to settle at the base of Alexander’s neck, smoothing the silk-like hair down as he does so. “I will not permit you to believe these words. Lafayette wouldn’t... He would not want you to say nor think such things.”

He is correct in that regard, Alexander thinks; Lafayette would surely scold him, pinch his cheek in mock-punishment.

But Lafayette isn’t here, he will never shake his head in fond exasperation at Alexander’s bleeding heart again. What is left of him intimately lives in his and Washington’s memories, both having been privy to his love, however different –or similar.

Right this moment, standing like this in Washington’s secure embrace, it all feels surreal. Thus, Alexander finally permits to voice out what he truly needs, having yet to admit it to himself.

“I need–” he whispers, “Sir, I...”

“What do you truly need, son?” Washington prompts him softly.

“I need him t-to come back,” he croaks out, a sob finally tearing itself from Alexander’s throat, much to his embarrassment. The dam breaks as finally the tears slip from his eyes. “M-My apologies, I–”

His attempt to compose himself is shut down as Washington’s arms tighten around him. From there, the younger man struggles to contain his heartbroken sobs, his tears hurriedly sliding down to land on the General’s waistcoat. It is as though the current of the river that has broken through the dam is too strong to be contained any longer, its need to follow its course impossible to deny.

The room remains quiet bar Alexander’s choked grief.

“I’m sorry I cannot do what we both need, Alexander,” Washington eventually tells him a couple minutes later, as his aide’s ragged sobs begin to subside.

And if the General’s voice cracks as he speaks, Alexander does not comment upon it, simply inhales deeply to calm himself, and sinks further into the admittedly reassuring embrace.

“Neither of us can control who lives, who dies, who tells our story,” the older man continues, “But we can tell his.”

The appropriate time that is considered to hold another man –a superior officer, George Washington no less– has long since passed. But then again, John and Alexander have held each other for entire nights, both sunken deep into their shared grief.

And besides, at this moment, Alexander could not care less about propriety, not when his Gilbert is gone and he is doubtful he will ever recover from the loss.

Washington does not seem to mind the prolonged physical closeness either, one hand rubbing soothing circles on Alexander’s back while the other remains on his neck, grounding.

“Will you sleep tonight?” Washington asks in a quiet voice after a while, still not relenting his hold on Alexander.

Alexander does feel incredibly tired, and also, surprisingly, somewhat lighter in his chest than earlier. Still, he gives a small shrug. “Perhaps. But it is only– I cannot,” he admits in a whisper, “I would rather not. I seem to be invariably plagued with unpleasant dreams when I do.”

Washington hums, and Alexander feels the sound vibrate against his chest. “Does Laurens know?”

A nod. “I keep to myself when I can as I wake, else you would find yourself with two sleep-deprived aides.” His half-hearted attempt at a joke goes unacknowledged.

Finally, Washington breaks the embrace slowly but leaves a large hand on his shoulder. His warmth is something Alexander instantly misses.

The General regards Alexander with compassionate eyes, no longer pitying. “Should you ever wish to unburden yourself of your nightly torments, know that I would lend an ear.” He offers a small, teasing smile. “However, I suspect you’d rather not, therefore I will make you another offer.”

Washington drops his hand from Alexander’s shoulder, turning to gesture at his desk. “You may use my desk.”

“Sir?” Alexander asks, confused. He doesn’t want to presume what he thinks Washington is suggesting.

“On the condition you make an attempt at sleep every night alongside Laurens, and when you find yourself roused and unable or unwilling to return to it, you may use my private desk for whatever writing you wish to work upon,” the General explains, then adding in a playful tone, “So long as you remain discreet for the sake of my own slumber, of course. Although that is a trait of which I often have my doubts you know the meaning.”

Alexander blinks, attempting to make sense of the words he must surely have misheard.

“And,” Washington adds, “when we shall undoubtedly move along, the offer will remain. Should we not have the luxury of a house, my tent is open to you as well.”

Alexander gapes at his superior, shocked at the offer. Not only did he expect Washington to press on the subject of his lack of rest and sternly discourage it, but he most certainly did _not_ expect the man to extend the invitation to his _private_ quarters, _while_ he sleeps. It is both a highly unusual offer, but also a great sign of trust, one Alexander isn’t sure how to return.

“I– Sir,” he stammers out, his throat still dry from his earlier sobs, “But why?”

Washington offers him a fond smile. “The nights are becoming colder, son. This room is the only one with a working fireplace. My tent’s isolation capabilities are more efficient than most as well. Must you remain awake, I would rather it not be in the cold, at the very least.”

Before Alexander can lie that it doesn’t bother him that much, Washington continues, giving a look to his chief of staff to shut the incoming protest down. “Moreover, it would soothe my conscience.”

That last bit, Alexander is convinced, is a vicious play on his empathy. And so, with a resigned sigh, he inclines his head in acceptance. “Thank you, Sir, I appreciate it.” He really does, more so than he can express.

“You are most welcome, Alexander,” the General answers softly. “Your well-being is important to this war, and to me.”

Immediately following Washington’s statement, Alexander stifles a traitorous yawn. The older man raises a questioning eyebrow, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Perhaps tonight is not the night we’ll christen this arrangement?”

Blushing in embarrassment, Alexander nods. “I believe I’ll take my chances in John and mine’s room first, if I may, Sir.”

“It would be unproductive of me to refuse such a request,” Washington says amusedly, gesturing at the door with his chin. “Good night, Hamilton.”

“Good night, Your Excellency.” Alexander turns and walks to the door. He opens it, but pauses in the doorway. He turns back to face Washington, who is watching him closely.

“Thank you, for... for this.” Unusually unwilling to elaborate, he hopes the General understands that he means to express his gratefulness for what has transpired between them in this room. From the fond quirk of the lips Washington answers him with, Alexander knows he’s been understood.

He closes the door behind him.

Back in his and John’s shared space, he quietly lights a candle so that he may ready himself for bed without stumbling in the dark. He glances in his friend’s direction, finding him unsurprisingly fast asleep, his peaceful expression shaving a few years off his already young age. He and Alexander are the youngest among Washington’s numerous aides. Lafayette had been as well, although his wisdom had always seemed to age him, a sharp contrast to his youthful attitude.

Alexander bites his lip as his heart stutters, once again threatening to overwhelm him. Gilbert is gone. What he would not trade to have him back. An apparition, an echo of his laughter, even just a whiff of his scent–

He snaps his head to the corner of the room where his and John’s compact trunks lay. Behind them, covered by a thin, unusable sheet, is Lafayette’s.

Until now, Alexander had stubbornly been ignoring it to the point he had successfully managed to drive it from his mind. But now, having had his heart opened by Washington, the trunk almost sings with the need to be acknowledged.

With slow and hesitant steps, Alexander goes to stand over the trunk. He grabs the sheet and pulls it off, his breath catching as he does so. Kneeling before it is the easiest step, his knees already so close to buckling on their own.

Shaking hands reach for the latch, sliding it open and lifting the top.

Almost immediately, the smell assaults Alexander’s senses, propelling him back to an infinite series of memories where he had been intertwined with Gilbert, his natural scent mixed with his soaps and cologne always drawing Alexander into a state of bliss. Now, he nearly collapses from the strength of it all.

He swallows down a wistful sob, unwilling to wake John, and instead reaches into the trunk to pull out one of the neatly folded shirts, bringing it slowly to his nose and inhaling deeply.

Past the melancholy, it calms him, lets him pretend nothing has changed, lets him believe Lafayette is still here, engulfing him in a tight embrace.

After a time, he opens his eyes, having not realized he had shut them. While keeping the precious piece of clothing close, he looks back down into the trunk, and spots a stack of letters, Lafayette’s name written on them with Alexander’s scrawl.

Those, however, he is not yet courageous enough to touch.

As he lays down next to John, clutching Lafayette’s shirt to his chest, Alexander barely has the time to go over tonight’s events and the confusing feeling of warmth in his chest, as sleep claims him generously.

Both the lighter feeling that had settled with his and Washington’s conversation, and the smell that is so uniquely Lafayette mercifully keep the nightmares away from his heavy heart for this night.

* * *


	9. Tearing Into An Iron Will

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Once again, sorry for the delay in posting. Papers have been pilling up still, and I will soon be entering exam season (I'd much rather write this story than whatever incomprehensible and exhausting thing I have to write for class). 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter! Warning for HURT & PROFANITIES, ha.

* * *

_Previously:_

_As his mind quietens, he is unable to stop the thought of his friends from wandering in his head, wondering what they are doing, if they live, if they believe him long dead, if they grieve for him._

_His worries manifest in the shape of nightmares; the vision of Alexander and John’s unseeing, unblinking eyes as they lay unmoving on the battlefield while Epaulettes stands above them with a bloodied sword is enough to make his sleep restless._

_~~~_

_As he lays down next to John, clutching Lafayette’s shirt to his chest, Alexander barely has the time to go over tonight’s events and the confusing feeling of warmth in his chest, as sleep claims him generously._

_Both the lighter feeling that had settled with his and Washington’s conversation, and the smell that is so uniquely Lafayette mercifully keep the nightmares away from his heavy heart for this night._

* * *

_Seventeen days after the battle_

Nights have already become noticeably colder.

Lafayette is unsure of the exact passage of days while alone in his cell, between his bouts of fatigue-driven unconsciousness. Still, he has been able to discern a pattern of time with the help of the lonely sliver of light that graces his prison: Every time the sliver reaches one foot to the right of the hook’s level, its color a pale blue, the door opens, a guard peers in lazily, and then Lafayette is given food and water –always a cob of stale bread, a couple of apples –the increase of fruit he is certain to be the doctor’s good-doing–, and a small yet graciously full bucket of water.

When the sliver turns a bright yellow and reaches the bottom step, he can brace for the possibility of another interrogation, but not always.

When his only source of light turns a soft pink, that’s when no one bothers him. There is no guard to ensure his continued survival, no food to remind him of his constant hunger and lack of control over this entire situation, no pain nor torment. Dawn, he guesses. He’s always enjoyed dawn, no matter the season. A new beginning, a new hope for freedom.

With the help of the different colors and changes in temperature, Lafayette believes he’s established a somewhat accurate estimation of a full rotation.

Nevertheless, he continuously asks Doctor Brocklesby, who, unfortunately true to his word, has become a frequent visitor, what day it is. The doctor curtly denies him the answer every time, repeatedly stating that he is under order not to say. He does, however, inform Lafayette of the time of day, and is rewarded with a number of humorous stories of the Frenchman’s youth and descriptions of quaint little villages in France.

Whether he listens or not or even welcomes the tales, Lafayette doesn’t particularly care. He enjoys making conversation –however one-sided it may be– with the only person who doesn’t torture him for information. It keeps him sane.

He longs to talk about Alexander, about Washington, about John. But he doesn’t, he is not that foolish. He suspects that every word he says to Brocklesby is probably reported to his captors, as is logical procedure. What he tells of his youth matters not to military men.

Overall, Lafayette is relieved when the sliver of light turns orange, as he can occasionally expect the doctor to step inside to treat him, examine his injuries, and most importantly, keep him company.

Still, Lafayette begins to tire, both physically and mentally.

Seven times.

Seven times he’s been interrogated by Epaulettes and Long Coat –whose names he still has yet to learn. Sometimes, he is hung on the hook to be beaten like a butcher’s meat of the day, his injured arm left limp while the other is pulled higher up to compensate. Other times, he is dragged and kicked on the floor like a measly bale of hay.

He can do nothing but struggle weakly against his assailant and futilely shield himself from the onslaught.

Blood has long since dried in the unkempt stubble now besetting his jaw. He occasionally scoops a handful of water from his bucket to wash it off, glad that his facial hair has always remained on the shorter side. His three bandaged areas, surprisingly, remain undisturbed –a precision which, once again, he can admire in his tormenter. He concludes that Doctor Brocklesby’s word of warning must have successfully been acknowledged.

But true to his oath, Lafayette has revealed nothing. He always greets his captors with false politeness, not caring whether it is indeed morning or not. In answer to questions on the Continental Army’s military tactics and plans and such, he either mutters curses in French or recites silly, nonsensical anecdotes that have barely survived the translation to English.

Although sometimes, he says nothing at all, too overtaken by the pain each gasp brings him. Sometimes, the interrogations come to an end when darkness envelops him in its merciful embrace.

Morbidly, he can admire Long Coat’s efficiency in administering punches and kicks. They are skillful and precise, and most difficult to ignore, even hours later. Indeed, Lafayette’s arms and torso –and undoubtedly his back as well– are covered in black and blue hues, his non-injured leg left aching, his face swollen and adorned with cuts.

Two and a half-weeks after his capture, Lafayette’s stitches are taken out, with the assurance that his wounds are healing as they should. While Lafayette smiles in relief at the knowledge that he is now safe from infections, the doctor’s eyes harden. His voice is low and serious –and dare he say worried– when he tells Lafayette that while he will continue to attempt to restrain his superiors’ strength, he cannot guarantee his endeavor will be as successful as it had been with the justification of risk of infection.

Lafayette continues to smile, even as his blood runs cold at the prospect of an even rougher treatment than the one he’s been given so far.

When he is left alone for what he assumes to be night time, judging by the drop in temperature, he curls in on himself, silently praying that somehow, he will wake up in Alexander’s arms come morning.

No such luck.

* * *

_Eighteen days after the battle_

On the eighth interrogation the following day, the first since his stitches have been taken off, Lafayette attempts to kick at Long Coat’s shin after a brief moment of pain-fueled fury, indignation and misguided confidence. Or perhaps he’s already become desperate.

He succeeds in making the other man trip and fall over. Adrenaline shoots up his veins and he lunges at his tormenter, throwing his chain around the British soldier’s throat. Truthfully, he had not planned this, not yet, not while he was so unprepared, but he gives this attempt at vindication his best. Who knows, perhaps he will manage to knock both soldiers out and escape.

No such luck, again.

Still, the satisfaction of having finally physically fought back remains even after waking up with a pounding headache from the recoil pad of the British rifle.

Oddly enough, he is alone. No sign of Brocklesby.

Once again adopting his preferred position of wrapping his arms around his folded knees, he attempts to calm his breathing and ignore the pain. He shivers, both from the cold of being constantly bare-chested, and from the general dread of the situation. Nevertheless, he sheds no tears at his failure, at his helplessness, else he knows he will never stop the flow.

Despite the constant aches, Lafayette occasionally pushes through it to stand and limp around the cellar, either to gather the food and water granted to him, to relieve himself in the corner pot, or to look around for any weakness in the walls or around the door or even on the ground. Although he finds none, he repeats the search whenever he gathers enough energy to do so, whenever his injured leg ceases to ache too much. He also takes a moment every now and then to retie his hair with his tattered ribbon.

It keeps his mind occupied. Should he think of Alexander, or John, or Washington, he will sink further into despair.

* * *

_Nineteen days after the battle_

When the door to his prison opens for the nineth interrogation, Lafayette sits up to prop himself against the wall, smiles crookedly and bids them a good morning.

As always, he receives an unamused huff from Epaulettes, and a scalding look from Long Coat. Lafayette smirks at the red marks peeking out from the latter’s collar. If nothing else, at least he’s managed to prove he will not simply roll over in hopelessness.

He notes that the atmosphere is different today, somehow. Long Coat, usually expressionless, wears the smallest of smirks, his posture indicating a certain anticipation. His right hand rests on his pocket, which seems to be heavy with an undistinguishable object. Lafayette eyes the bulge warily until his attention is called by Epaulettes.

“We must address your little stunt from yesterday, Major General,” Epaulettes states, that condescending tone already grating on Lafayette’s nerves.

“Yes, you are right,” Lafayette meets Long Coat’s eyes, offering him an insolent grin. “I do hope the red necklace I have gifted you will not _mettre une fin_ to your pleasant and _loquace_ self?”

Long Coat’s smirk falls, moving to take a step forward only to be wordlessly halted by his superior. Lafayette’s eyes glint with satisfaction while Epaulettes’ become darker with annoyance.

“It would seem a rectification in our discussion methods is in order indeed,” he says ominously. “Although you may still choose to answer me without further prompting.”

Lafayette raises an eyebrow –the one without a cut– skeptically. Whatever it is his captors have planned, Lafayette mentally scoffs at it and steels himself. His conviction not to reveal a single piece of information pertinent to Washington and the war is as strong as ever.

Epaulettes takes his usual seat as he stares down at the Frenchman, appraising him for a few silent moments. Eventually, he leans back in his chair.

“Where are Washington’s troops headed next, Major General?”

Lafayette chuckles –although it sounds more like a rasp to his ears– and lifts his bound hands, making a vague gesture through the air. “Do you not tire of asking the same questions?” he asks with a bored tone, “Or addressing me by my rank, for that matter? It must surely become a redundant _tour de langue, non?_ ”

“Addressing you by your rank, Major General, serves to remind you of the choices that have brought you here. What happens here is no one’s fault but your own,” Epaulettes answers, still with that condescending tone Lafayette has grown to despise. “As for the repetition of my questions, I do tire of it.”

Lafayette barely has time to acknowledge the cold meaning of being constantly reminded of his position in the Continental Army when he is routinely lifted up by his chain. By that point, his shoulder must have either developed a resistance to the strain, or his nerves have given up entirely, the latter possibility much less reassuring.

He sighs shakily as he realizes today will be a butcher’s meat day.

However, in place of being hooked up with his back against the wall as per the usual treatment, he is yanked around and nearly slammed face first against the cold, unforgiving surface as his chain is securely mounted to the hook.

He grunts as his knees hit the stone wall. He quickly attempts to adjust his position, turning his head to shoot the British soldiers a glare over his shoulder.

“Once more, Major General,” Epaulettes starts, “Where are Washington’s troops headed next?”

“ _Chez ta mère_ ,” Lafayette growls, silently apologizing to the multiple women who have raised him to speak proper and well-mannered.

He turns his head back to face the wall, bracing his mind and body for a well-aimed kick. Gruesomely, he wonders which part of his body will receive special attention today. He places his bets on his lower spine, given his position. He tenses his muscles for the moment the blunt edge of Long Coat’s boot will connect with his back.

He doesn’t expect the cracking sound of air instantly followed by his skin suddenly burning with a razor-sharp pain.

Lafayette cries out, both in surprise and at the unfamiliar and most distressing sensation, his eyes flying open in shock. His hands ball into fists as he attempts to draw in a breath through gritted teeth.

“ _Merde_ _..._ ” he exhales shakily, feeling his body begin to tremble slightly from the welt he’s received. He chances a glance back to confirm the shape of the instrument he’s been introduced to.

The sight of the brown leather whip turns his stomach. Its length is long enough to gain fast momentum, but also short enough to be clear-cut. The tip, which currently rests on the floor, splits into two –similar to a forked tongue– and knots at the very end. All the more biting, he knows. He’s never had the displeasure of being on the receiving end of a whip, nor has he ever used one past a light tap of his riding crop for his horses back in France.

“Such foul language for an Old World aristocrat,” Epaulettes speaks up casually from behind him, sniffing distastefully. “As a matter of fact, I find any form of French to be most loathsome. It has always sounded so arrogant and suilline to my ears.”

Ignoring the dishonor with which the man describes his beloved mother tongue proves to be a hardship for the Frenchman, who instead sneers back at the British soldier. 

“Would you rather I neigh like a horse if you insist on treating me as such?” The rational part of his brain warns him against speaking with such obvious disdain. However, it also informs him that he doubts his situation will improve regardless of his words and tone of voice.

Epaulettes laughs, the sound chilling and humorless. “Perhaps I’ll have you muzzled as well, given your preference for silence, Major General.”

Before Lafayette can retort, the whip cracks down on his skin once again. He is unable to contain the shout that tears from his throat, angry and pained. Another lash quickly follows, although this time he manages to contain his cry.

“ _Espèce d’invertébré_ _,_ ” he spits out then, receiving another two more slices at his skin. He begins to feel a warm liquid slowly trickle down his back, guessing it to be either sweat or blood. Perhaps both.

“For every forsaken French word I hear, you will receive twice your due,” Epaulettes declares, “Is that understood?”

“ _Parfaitement, gros demeuré_ _._ ” Let it be said that Alexander Hamilton is not the only man willing to rise up to a challenge, as detrimental as it may be.

The six lashes that follow in rapid succession bring tears to Lafayette’s eyes, but still he bites down on his tongue to remain quiet. The whip cracks four more times, more measured this time, each leaving an angry red welt across his back.

“When does Washington plan on leading another attack?”

Lafayette’s continued silence earns him another half a dozen lashes, flinching at each one. The metallic taste becomes more prominent in his mouth, his breathing more ragged, sweat sliding down his temples. He is unsure how much longer he can bravely remain soundless. He refuses to give his tormenters the satisfaction of hearing his suffering, but the choice might quickly be taken out of his hands.

“Where has Washington sent his spies?”

Lafayette thinks of his friend, Hercules Mulligan. He almost laughs, as not many know of the former tailor’s apprentice’s exact whereabouts and current status. The Marquis, while having been consulted on the matter, had still not been given many confirmations regarding their spy’s mission, unlike Alexander –Washington’s actual right-hand man.

He thanks his stars that it is he and his lack of knowledge on the matter here in the hands of the enemy, and not Alexander.

The last of the five following lashes manages to finally draw a whimper from the back of his throat. His eyes are screwed shut tight enough to see dancing colors behind his eyelids, making him dizzy. His nails dig all the deeper into the palm of his hands, creating crescent-like marks as his body trembles from the onslaught.

Unwilling to appear weak, Lafayette grounds out, “I will not part with any information I know. You would do well to save your breath _de vache_ and deliver _cette putain de_ _punition_ without further attempts to have me betray my country.”

“You consider this misled land your own, Major General?” Epaulettes scoffs, halting Long Coat’s whip.

Lafayette’s eyes remain close as he frowns, realizing the slip of his tongue and feeling somewhat embarrassed by it. Although it is true that he considers the Colonies’ land and the country whose independence they are fighting to form as his own, he is aware that it is, in fact, not his.

He is a citizen of France alone, an immigrant. Perhaps that is why his captors seem to particularly despise him.

Yet his resolve hardens in the face of this oppressor’s mocking question. This birthing country may indeed not ever truly be his home in name and paper, but his heart and soul have long since found a place in it and alongside its most true-hearted citizens.

“I do, and I will remain most loyal to it,” Lafayette answers proudly, although his voice trembles from the onslaught on his back. Nonetheless he smirks. “But you would not understand loyalty, _soumis royal que tu es_.”

His words –whether his declaration or his usage of French or both– earn him another ten lashings. The leather instrument expertly manages to lick at his skin on top of previously inflicted marks, furthering the feeling of fire in his flesh. Much to Lafayette’s shame, another high-pitched whimper escapes from his lips by the end of this set.

“Do you wish to know by which means we identified you?” Epaulettes asks him in a seemingly bored tone while simultaneously sounding spiteful.

“Not particularly, no,” Lafayette hisses between shaky intakes of breaths. It earns him a well-placed snap of the whip to the right side of his neck. The split tip catches on his throat, making him choke on air.

“Naturally, your uniform was quite telling in itself,” Epaulettes begins as though Lafayette hasn’t responded in the negative, “But what prompted such immediate special medical treatment were your delirious pleas in that atrocious language of yours.”

The whip cracks again, landing just above his bandaged midsection. Lafayette flinches with another choked sound. Epaulettes continues after a pause.

“My soldiers have named you ‘The Mad Frenchman’.” Lafayette distantly wonders if the man is rolling his eyes, given his derisive tone. “Both from your performance on the battlefield, and your incessant wailing under our doctors’ scalpels.”

Another lash paints his back, across his left shoulder blade. Lafayette fears he cannot control his pain’s manifestation for much longer now, even as his mind slowly registers the British soldier’s words.

He starts as Epaulettes’ voice suddenly brushes right next to his ear, low and hissing, “Begging for Washington to help you, like the pathetic little French whelp you are.”

Lafayette’s growl dies in his throat, knowing that if he loosens his vocal cords at this moment, nothing will emerge but wounded noises.

“‘The Mad Frenchman’,” the British soldier spits the epithet. “If they could see you now. If _Washington_ could see you now.”

Lafayette will scold himself later on for his inability to hold up his front and save his dignity as the dam suddenly breaks with the following tear into his skin. He easily loses count then, silently praying to no one in particular for this punishment to be mercifully over. Whimpers and whines cascade freely from his lips with each new crack of the whip upon his torn skin. He feels the tears biting at his eyes, but refuses to let them shed. The desperate rattles of his chains go unheard over the sound of his sharp cries.

It all seems unending.

He attempts to distance himself from the searing pain, from the blood now definitely sliding down his back by thinking of France, by mentally reciting poems of Malherbe and La Fontaine. Perhaps some words are croaked out loud, his consciousness refusing to fade into silence, even as time seems to stop.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears Washington’s soothing voice as he reads out a chapter of their commonly read book.

_‘_ _Take my advice and live for a long, long time. Because the maddest thing a man can do in this life is to let himself die._ _’_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translations:  
>  mettre une fin: put a stop  
>  loquace: loquacious  
>  tour de langue: twist of the tongue  
>  Chez ta mère: At your mother’s  
>  Merde: Shit  
>  Espèce d’invertébré: You spineless (species)  
>  Parfaitement, gros demeuré: Perfectly, fat/big idiot  
>  de vache: cow’s  
>  cette putain de punition: this fucking punishment  
>  soumis royal que tu es: royal subservient that you are


	10. Despair Grows Like Vine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!! I got another chapter up and ready, and was encouraged to post it earlier :)
> 
> While I have your attention, I have recently made the most lovely acquaintances on a Discord Server, dedicated to Hamilton and Turn. Come have a look! https://discord.gg/bsjVpjz8Qb
> 
> In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this piece!

* * *

_Previously:_

_As he lays down next to John, clutching Lafayette’s shirt to his chest, Alexander barely has the time to go over tonight’s events and the confusing feeling of warmth in his chest, as sleep claims him generously._

_Both the lighter feeling that had settled with his and Washington’s conversation, and the smell that is so uniquely Lafayette mercifully keep the nightmares away from his heavy heart for this night._

* * *

A tentative truce has replaced the coldness that had become Alexander’s off-work relationship with Washington. After all, it would have been difficult to dismiss their heart-to-heart conversation five days prior.

Still, neither man brings up the fragile subject that is Lafayette’s permanent absence, undaring to overstep the frangible reconstruction of companiable trust between them.

Alexander continues to remain awake until he is truly unable to, having taken up the General’s offer to use the warmth of his private chambers during his disturbed nights –on three occasions, only. It is an odd experience, Alexander thinks, to be able to let himself into Washington’s room as the man sleeps.

The first night he did so, Alexander had taken his time in taking in the details of the room, having not been in a proper state of mind to do so before. He had noted how the room is undeniably more spacious than any other in the house. One corner is occupied by an old-looking bookshelf lined with books Alexander wouldn’t mind observing more closely. In another corner stands an empty tub –one to have surely come with the house–, which Alexander doubts is often used has he suspects Washington wouldn’t want to waste so much time by bathing.

After all, a basin and a few clean cloths are satisfactory enough for a soldier.

Indeed, a full basin is set on top of a dresser a few feet next to the tub, as well as a length-size mirror. The desk that Washington has allowed Alexander to use is the closest furniture to the fireplace, much to his silent comfort. The aide-de-camp had discovered that by throwing his useless drafts that he judged to be poorly-written into the fire, his frustrations would occasionally alleviate –an action he excuses to no one as innocently feeding the fire.

Finally, not too far from the desk itself, is Washington’s bed. It is more commodious than the usual cot, off the ground as well –although he is not surprised to by that fact, given the multiple times he’d been in the General’s previous living arrangements and seen a similar bed size. However, he had never been privy to see the General actually occupying it.

The first couple of times Alexander had commandeered the desk for the night, Washington had been turned away from him, the covers rising and falling gently with regular, silent breaths. The younger man had only from time to time glanced up from his writings to ensure he had not accidentally woken the General up with what he’s been told are his ‘aleatory mumbles’.

The third time, however, Washington had been facing him in his sleep. Needless to say, Alexander had had some level of difficulty concentrating that night –apart from his usual exhaustion.

He had lost count of how many times he’d caught himself just staring at the General’s features, entranced by how younger and peaceful the man looked like this. Although throughout the night, small twitches and frowns would sometimes make themselves apparent on the handsome visage.

And when the Washington’s lips had parted slightly with a sigh, Alexander had looked away and hastily pushed down the heat gathering in his chest, blaming it and the sudden flush on his cheeks on the fire crackling next to him.

Each one of these nights, Alexander has made sure to leave the General’s quarters before he’d wake, even managing a few hours of sleep himself after spending an admittingly relaxing time in his commander’s silent company.

It is as though Washington’s presence alone has regained its effect on the chief of staff as it did before the Battle of Brandywine, as though nothing has changed.

But Alexander knows it can never be so, not exactly, for things will never be the same without Lafayette.

And so, five nights after their conversation, Alexander once again wakes with a choked gasp, tears in his eyes. He slams a hand in front of his mouth to keep quiet as he catches his breath.

He glances to his right as he always does, foolishly begging for the nightmares to be only that, instead of memories. He hates this part the most; waking up with dread, and then, for one fraction of a second, relieved to realize he had been asleep, only to have all hope crushed with the emptiness of the space next to him.

Alexander wonders when the numbness will finally manifest, if he will ever stop this vicious circle from devouring his soul every night.

He looks to his left, to John’s sleeping form. How his friend manages to sleep more nights than not, he doesn’t understand. John had once told him he rarely remembers his dreams, a trait Alexander currently envies. But for all that John appears composed and well-rested during the day, Alexander has often caught him as his gaze glazed over. When such occurrences happen, Alexander will gently set a comforting hand on his arm to bring him back to the present. John will startle and blink rapidly before offering a small, grateful but sad smile to Alexander, and that will be that.

Alexander also notices how John has ceased to draw, his pencil remaining still and sterile above the blank page of his sketchbook, itself a gift from Lafayette. It seems all inspiration has left him.

John has always been braver than Alexander, and this is just another example of such bravery; the way he stands strong and carries on, while also giving Alexander all the support he can despite his own grief.

With a shaky sigh, Alexander stands from their cot, and carefully readjusts his uniform. Much as he would gladly find solace in John’s reassurances and embrace, he has sworn to himself to let his friend rest and not burden him every night.

Hence why he gathers his stack of unfinished letters, and exits the makeshift room to make his way up the stairs.

Letting himself in as quietly as possible, he barely gives the room a glance as he slowly closes the door, softening the click of the handle.

Thus, when the sound of a throat clearing breaks the silence, Alexander jumps around, startled.

“Ah, Sir,” the aide greets, standing at attention on reflex, “I apologize, I had not realized you were still awake. I shall take my leave–”

Washington, standing by the window with his back to Alexander, dressed in a state of casual but nevertheless proper manner, cuts him off with a wave. “Please, stay. You will not bother me.”

He adds nothing else.

Alexander considers protesting, considers just turning around and finding his peace elsewhere. But his curiosity has been peaked by Washington’s abnormally tired tone of voice. Wordlessly, he takes a seat at the desk, setting his papers down and prepares his ink and quill.

From his position in the room, he can only see the right side of Washington’s striking figure, reminding Alexander of an imposing Roman statue.

He mentally gives himself a shake, coaxing himself to focus on the letters he’s brought up with him to finish.

However, he barely gets to write a couple sentences before his focus returns to the General, who remains standing a few feet away to his left, still as stone, looking out into the night. His hands are clasped behind his back, his posture tense and eyes vacant. Alexander wonders what is on the man’s mind.

Taking in the state of the room to clue himself in to the situation, Alexander notices how the bed is unmade. He doubts Washington keeps his bed in disarray during the day, meaning the man must have slept in it at some point during the night. His gaze then falls upon a book lying open on the floor by the bed, pages down. Yet another usual sight, for Alexander has not known the General to discard his books in such a manner before. From his seat at the desk, he can’t quite make out the title, as the light of the fireplace doesn’t touch that part of the room as brightly, but he discerns an odd-looking bookmark.

Oddly enough, the bookmark resembles that of a military tassel, the one high-ranked officers wear on their epaulettes.

Finally, he permits his inquisitive eyes to settle upon the General himself openly. The man seems too lost in his own mind to notice anyway. Alexander can now note the new addition of bags under Washington’s eyes, his haunted look, the slight tremble of his hands.

Alexander knows the signs too well, he sees them in John, he feels them in himself, and now, he witnesses them in the General. They demand to be addressed, but Alexander is unsure as to how, he who had been so tactless before, especially as Washington had been more than patient, more than gentle, more than a commander to Alexander.

It is now his turn to lend a shoulder.

“Is there something troubling you, Sir?” Alexander asks, his tone both curious and inviting of a conversation without judgement.

Washington blinks slowly, as though gathering his wits, and turns his head to look at Alexander, a strange gleam in his eyes.

“Why do you ask?” His voice lacks its usual strength. It is somewhat disturbing to the chief of staff.

“Sir,” Alexander deadpans, in a voice that tells the General he is not blind, not tonight, “You are still awake, and, to be frank, you seem... distant as well.”

Washington hums in acknowledgment, and turns back to stare through the window. A sigh leaves him, his shoulders losing their stiffness, if only slightly.

“After our conversation from a few nights ago,” he begins slowly, “it dawned on me that you may have inadvertently admitted something I am perhaps certain you would rather I did not know.”

Alexander frowns, a tinge of apprehension tingling to life into his fingers. He makes a quick rundown of the things he’d said that night. Unsurprisingly, he finds the specifics to be somewhat unclear, given how agitated he and his emotions had been.

Could it be that he accidentally gave away the nature– the _past_ nature of his and Lafayette’s relationship?

“Sir?” he cautiously prompts.

Washington takes a step away from the window, finally giving Alexander his full attention.

“As you were expressing the blame you’ve misplaced upon yourself,” he clarifies, tone neutral, “you mentioned yourself as a ‘bastard immigrant’. Now why–”

Alexander cuts him off as he stands abruptly, his chair scraping shrilly against the floorboards. Had he truly and so foolishly revealed his origins to the General? To the _damn Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army_? Had he so carelessly thrown away any chance at rising through the ranks and making a name for himself?

The apprehension turns to panic. Will Washington dismiss him? Will he send him away to a dead-end career as the lowliest of soldiers? He must rectify his godforsaken mistake, _now_.

“Sir, it is not what you think,” he speaks quickly before Washington can finish his sentence, locking his shoulders as regally as he can, eyes burning with the intensity of a man desperate to rise above his station. “I had not been in a right state of mind that night. It was merely a self-depreciating turn of phrase, nothing to be taken to heart. I apologize for the misunderstanding.”

A few beats of silence pass by, the two men locked eye to eye. Then, Washington’s lips quirk up ever so slightly. Alexander narrows his eyes, bracing to further justify his case.

“Alexander, you are aware that I had more than your qualifications reviewed before hiring you, are you not?” From his tone of voice, it is obvious he knows Alexander had indeed not known. His baffled silence only confirms it. “A young man with such renown and curious attitude, naturally I was compelled to know more before I could consider hiring you on my staff.”

“Sir–”

But Washington holds up his hand in a silencing motion, taking a step forward. “Imagine my amusement when I learned that you’d already caused quite the ruckus in the streets, but had also assaulted the bursar at Princeton.”

He raises an eyebrow, daring Alexander to deny the claims before continuing. “But most importantly, I was most surprised by your origins, the information about which is very scarce. Truthfully, I had not known until now that you were a child out of wedlock, only that you came to America from the Nevis in seventy-two.”

All throughout Washington’s testimony, Alexander loses a few shades of color, especially with each step the General takes in his direction, now standing right in front of him. When it becomes clear that he is once more allowed to speak, he takes a deep breath and lifts his chin in defiance.

“With all due respect, Sir, my origins in no way define my capacities and loyalties as a soldier, and I have already proven that I will do whatever it takes to advance the cause for our freedom. Therefore, and with regard to your station, I demand to be given the chance to continue in my duties–”

“I am not dismissing you, Alexander,” Washington interrupts him calmly.

“–I’m sorry, what?” the younger man asks in the same breath as his previous sentence, suddenly and truly baffled.

Washington gives an amused shake of his head. “Your invaluable position at my side was never in doubt.”

The frown doesn’t dissipate from Alexander’s forehead. “Then why bring up the subject of my... unfortunate birthplace and status?”

The amusement quickly fades from the General’s expression. “For the reason you’ve once again demonstrated.” He pauses, regarding Alexander’s confusion. “Twice now you have brought yourself down with the use of your origins. Why is that?”

Alexander gapes at Washington, taken aback by this turn of events. A flash of anger and indignation ripples through him. “Do you mock me, Sir?” he grits out.

A sigh. “No, son. But perhaps I need not ask, for I can venture as to your reasoning.” Washington pauses then, considering his words, while gauging the younger man’s reaction.

“You’re ashamed of your upbringing, and have been for longer than I’ve known you,” he says gravely, doubtlessly noticing the way Alexander stiffens. “I will not pretend to understand your thoughts on the matter, but I believe it high time to speak my mind of it.”

Washington sets a heavy hand on Alexander’s shoulder, squeezing it briefly.

“A firm will and determination for this country’s freedom matters more to me than any origin or birth status,” he tells his chief aide-de-camp, speaking with as much of a serious tone as he would during an important meeting with other generals. “You’ve indeed proven yourself an indispensable and noble addition to our ranks, Alexander, and when our country will stand on its own, it will need men like you to guide it. Remember that.”

Washington watches as Alexander swallows thickly, the younger man’s gaze flickering down as his cheeks turn a light red.

They remain silent for a moment, as Alexander fights to keep his composure. Without looking up at his commander, he clears his throat.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asks in a whisper.

“You need to be aware of your own worth, son,” Washington answers without missing a beat, confident and sincere in his answer. “And I... I needed to relay the admiration I hold for you.”

While the General’s earnest tone is altogether not new to Alexander’s ears, when it is combined with these words, it unnerves him.

“But _why?_ ” Alexander insists, rising his gaze again to meet Washington’s, “And why _now?_ ” He is unable to comprehend the General’s reasoning. People like Washington don’t admire people like Alexander. That’s how it is. They find use in their abilities, certainly, but to genuinely and personally express their admiration for them...

It is as foreign to Alexander as he is himself is.

But Washington continues to throw him for a loop, offering him a regretful smile. He takes his time in answering, his eyes never leaving Alexander’s, never faltering in their open honesty.

“Because I should have done so sooner, instead of waiting until it is too late.”

The air thickens around them, or perhaps it is the fire finally engulfing the entire room in its heat. Washington’s hand is still anchored on Alexander’s shoulder, mercifully grounding him.

Alexander swallows his words multiple times, finding them unsatisfactory. He is no fool tonight. He understands the underlaying meaning of Washington’s words, heavy and heart-clenching as they are.

“Is this to do with Lafayette?” he asks.

The air is the room because noticeably heavier, and this time the fire cannot be blamed for it. Even a pin could be heard dropping. Alexander stiffens in apprehension, wondering if he’s crossed the line too soon.

But Washington gives his shoulder another firm squeeze.

“Partly,” the General admits quietly. “His... sudden departure has been a reminder to cherish those I care about with more vocal demonstration. I–” He cuts himself off, letting his hand fall as he turns. “I made the mistake of not doing so with Lafayette, being so foolish as to let him leave my side without... without...”

He trails off, his eyes closing and jaw clenching. Another moment of silence surrounds the two men, the grief once again more palpable in the open.

“Lafayette was well aware of the care you held for him,” Alexander eventually says with a firm tone despite the way his voice trembles with Lafayette’s name. “He always spoke of you with high regard and adoration, to anybody who would listen.”

Washington glances back at him, his eyes suspiciously gleaming. He then steps back in front of Alexander and leans forward.

Alexander’s breath catches, his heart skipping a beat. His lips part minutely, eyes fluttering shut, awaiting something. _A kiss_ , his traitorous mind supplies as his heart stops momentarily.

When nothing happens, Alexander opens his eyes, and is greeted by the side of the General’s head as the other man is looking through the top drawer of the desk against which Alexander’s hip is propped.

The younger soldier mentally scolds himself for whatever temporary insanity just passed through him. To think such thoughts is not only preposterous, but shameful as well; Lafayette is barely cold and Alexander is letting his mind wander where it shouldn’t.

_What is wrong with him?_

Washington then straightens, a letter in his hand. It is creased, smudged in some places, as if it has seen quite a bit of rough travel. Both men look down at it for a moment, Alexander with curiosity, Washington with a regretful frown.

Its unopened seal stares back at them.

“The letter never reached him,” Washington says grimly as he hands it to Alexander before walking back to the window. “It only found its way back here a couple days ago. He will never have known that I held no ill-will against him.”

Alexander looks fixedly at the letter, his breath catching at the knowledge that his last address to Lafayette were not the loving words he’d carefully poured into this letter, but rather a wordless demonstration of his love through a passionate kiss –as the words they had exchanged on the battlefield had belonged between soldiers, not lovers.

He cannot help but wonder if Lafayette had not actually understood what he had meant through that farewell gesture.

 _Had they known it would be their last kiss_.

Perhaps, just like Washington’s inability to clear the air regarding their friendship, Alexander had not been able to relay the depth of his love to the Frenchman.

And now, it is too late.

“I’ll have never apologized for sending him on his way as I did,” Washington continues, startling Alexander out of his melancholic thoughts. “I cannot help but wonder, given how our Marquis was more unbarred with his emotions than any other I know of, if perhaps he had been distracted by the thought. If... If that distraction was the cause of his downfall.”

The General’s voice is crocheted with guilt, each word more poignant than the other.

Alexander’s tongue finally snaps back into action at that. Washington has already helped to alleviate some of his guilt, it is time to repay that debt. Regret is not something either of them can erase, but at least Alexander can quash the General’s misplaced culpability.

“I was there, with him,” he states firmly, pausing until Washington’s eyes focus back on him, “He was... He was the bravest of us all, even as we all knew the battle was long lost. He single-handedly gathered the soldiers, ran across the battlefield with the fury and focus rarely seen even among our veterans, even wounded as he was.”

He swallows down the lump in his throat, blinking rapidly a couple times to dismiss the renewed wetness in his eyes. “He refused to leave the men behind, even when it meant risking his own life. Your Excellency, even the second coming of Christ could not have distracted him at that moment.”

The room falls silent once more, the crackling of the fire the only sound piercing the tension. Alexander watches as a war rages inside Washington’s eyes, his posture fighting between rearing for a fight to keep his guilt, or accepting the arguments presented to him.

The irony of their reversed positions is not lost on Alexander.

“He knew how much you cared, Sir,” he adds, as a final blow against the General’s inner demons. “And now, I know as well.”

The ‘thank you’ remains unsaid, but not unheard.

The strings seem to visibly snap inside Washington, his shoulders slumping, his fists unclenching, and, to Alexander’s more personal satisfaction, appearing on his face is the smallest upwards twitch of his lips.

“The way you speak of him,” Washington starts softly, “and the way he so often spoke of you, it tells much of the bond you shared.”

A memory of his and Lafayette’s tangled bodies in the throes of passion flashes through Alexander’s mind, loving words and vigorous kisses exchanged through the haze of heated moans echoing in his ears and tingling on his lips.

“Yessir,” he whispers, willing the memories away for the sake of his sanity. “We found kinship within each other the very first night we met.”

At that, Washington chuckles lightly, dissipating some of the melancholy from the room. “He told me of your first meeting, how you inserted yourself on scene and captured everyone’s attention with, and I quote his words, ‘a speech worthy of Socrates himself’.”

Alexander reddens, both from Lafayette’s absentee words, and the ones he remembers hearing when he and Lafayette had been alone. He certainly hopes Lafayette had not told Washington of the rest of that infamous evening.

“Has he also told you how he loudly insulted the king whilst perched on a table?” Alexander asks with a small smirk.

“Naturally.”

Both men laugh light-heartedly, unrestricted, the action much welcomed after weeks of weak attempts at normalcy.

“Join me in a drink?” Washington suggests once they’ve settled. “I believe it is high time we properly toast to our dear Marquis’ life.”

Alexander nods, and watches as Washington retrieves a bottle and two glasses. He pours them both a generous amount, and gestures for Alexander to follow. Alexander does, but stands confused when the General sits on the edge of his bed. A single raised eyebrow indicates the younger man to do the same. Feeling somewhat awkward and oddly silly, he sits down, as far away from Washington as he respectfully can, and accepts the glass handed to him.

Washington raises his first, “To Lafayette. An exemplary soldier, a trusted friend, the bravest man to grace our continent.”

Alexander bites his lower lip to stop it from wobbling. These brief, unrehearsed words from the General, uttered in the privacy of this room for himself and Alexander alone, tear more at his heart than the lengthy speech given for the all the fallen after the battle.

“To the bonds he honored us with,” he whispers in turn, unable to hold Washington’s gaze as he attempts to once again will away the tears. He lowers his glass, and stares into the dark liquid, momentarily losing himself in his own wretched reflection.

He is startled both by the sudden drop in his glass, the traitorous tear almost too quiet to hear as it mixes with the content of his drink. The large, warm hand on his knee prompts him to glance back up, finding Washington sitting much closer than before, looking at him with compassion and a matching sadness.

“I miss him too, son.”

* * *


	11. Wishful Thinking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo! I'm so happy to read your comments, they are the highlight of this adventure! Thank you thank you :))
> 
> Now on to the more desagreeable things: I am entering exam season, thus I will likely be unable to post until December 21st, give or take. BUT maybe I will, who knows! I hope so ;)
> 
> ******* While I have your attention, I have recently made the most lovely acquaintances on a Discord Server, dedicated to Hamilton and Turn. Come have a look! https://discord.gg/bsjVpjz8Qb *******
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter!!

* * *

_Previously :_

_It all seems unending._

_He attempts to distance himself from the searing pain, from the blood now definitely sliding down his back by thinking of France, by mentally reciting poems of Malherbe and La Fontaine. Perhaps some words are croaked out loud, his consciousness refusing to fade into silence, even as time seems to stop._

_Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears Washington’s soothing voice as he reads out a chapter of their commonly read book._

_‘_ _Take my advice and live for a long, long time. Because the maddest thing a man can do in this life is to let himself die._ _’_

* * *

_Twenty days after the battle_

When Lafayette awakens, he is alone.

His back is sore, and any twitch of his limbs feels like someone is pulling at his torn skin with rusty tweezers. He is shivering, both from his frayed nerves and the cold air.

His cell is particularly chilled at the moment as a cool breeze is coming in from the arrowslit, the Fall temperature easily slipping through even from the height of the carved hole. He wishes it weren’t so high on the wall, so that he could peer out of it and perhaps get a glimpse of freedom.

To his surprise, he notices that he wears no new bandages, only the remaining two around his shoulder and calf, his burns having scarred enough not to necessitate any more protection. A shame really, it could have provided an extra if small layer of warmth.

Sitting up slowly, his stomach sends a reminder of his hunger, his dry throat demanding to be soothed as well. He looks around for his usual bucket of water, only to find it missing. His heart plummets in dread as his eyes fully adjust to the dark once more and still there is no sign of his source of water.

His captors must have taken it away. Is this part of his punishment? Will he be denied this basic need? Has he finally been left to rot away–

His eyes land by the door, spotting a small cylindrical object next to –much to his stomach’s simultaneous relief– a singular cob of bread. He chooses to be grateful for what he is given rather than uselessly rage over the lack of more nourishment.

Despite despising the idea of standing right this moment, he pushes through the discomfort to limp his way to the stairs. He settles down at the bottom, grimacing when the stretch of his skin sends a fresh wave of fire to his back all the way up to his neck, making his gasp breathlessly.

He raises a hand to palm at the right side of his throat, wincing as he feels a linear swell of skin across it, almost reaching his Adam’s apple.

With a sigh, he takes a hold of the aluminium cup, examining its size. It is too small for his thirst and has been filled clumsily, but he drinks slowly nonetheless, only sipping half the content for now. The cool liquid is a blessing as he feels it slide down and appease his insides, if temporarily.

As he eats the bread, he lets his thoughts wander.

The original objective of his most recent ‘ordeal’ with his captors must have been to deter him from attempting another act of rebellion –or escape. Have they succeeded, he wonders.

Physically, he definitely believes himself to be at a disadvantage, aching and weak as he currently feels, especially following his ‘punishment’. The reduced quantity of food and water given to him will only serve to limit the energy he can gather as well.

It is a sound strategy, he knows.

As to his mental state, Lafayette is unsure. The thought of enduring such torture without an end in sight is enough for his throat to tighten with trepidation. Yet, it also strengthens his desire to find a way out of this situation. But what use is his desire when both his will and capacities are frail?

Should he attempt anything like his last stunt again, he will surely fail, and he has no doubts that his captors will be all the less merciful with him for it, which in turn will leave him even weaker than he is now.

He is at a loss. He wishes someone could guide him, make the decisions for him, instruct him to safety. He wishes Washington could whisper his wisdom in his ear. He wishes Washington could hold him and tell him everything will be alright.

The thought of the General, not unlike Alexander, sends a pang of melancholy through him. He wonders if he will ever see the great man again, if he will ever hear his baritone voice, or feel the calloused hands in his own.

Lafayette recalls their last encounter with bitterness and regret. For days he had mulled over the meaning of Washington’s dismissive and cold attitude towards him as he had been bound to depart. He had retraced his steps from that morning, having discovered nothing that had warranted such rejection. It had hurt, he may admit to himself.

The sudden battle in Brandywine had taken his mind off the incident, the confused thoughts replaced by the goal of making his dear _Général_ proud, of returning to him victorious. Then perhaps Washington would have forgiven whatever fault Lafayette had committed prior to his departure.

Alas, it would seem the last sentiment he would ever receive from the General is one of apathy, perhaps even disappointment.

Fate is indeed a cruel mistress.

Falling in love not once, but twice, simultaneously, before being ripped away from his beloved, must have also been one of Fate’s wicked twists. Lady Fortune had been generous with her approbation of his and Alexander’s oh so sweet and loving liaison, as well as Lafayette’s closeness to Washington, but her luck for him could only extends so far.

Lafayette finishes his meagre meal, savors the other half of his cup of water, and stands once more. He limps back to his favored corner, the farthest away from the door, and lays down on his side, curling onto himself to fend off the cold as much as he possibly can.

Sleep does not find him for hours, his mind remaining troubled while his body and heart continue to ache.

* * *

_Twenty-three days after the battle_

Lafayette is whipped on two more occasions, nothing but cries and blood from his bitten tongue and lips leaving his mouth. Yet he stubbornly and resolutely keeps silent on military matters.

Lafayette had been foolishly hopeful that the first whipping as punishment for his attempt at an assault on Long Coat would be a unique occurrence.

Still, he had kept his fear of the incoming pain well under wraps. His sharp cries were for the hellish sensation of the leather whip tearing new lines into his skin, or so he liked to pretend.

Moreover, he is now certain that both Epaulettes and Long Coat –especially the latter– enjoy hearing him shout and seeing him shudder at their hands, which makes the experience all the more humiliating for the Frenchman.

Presently, Lafayette is not quite sure when the third assault on his back ceases, nor when he is once again left alone. All he knows is that his skin feels as though it’s been given to a panther to maul.

The burning has, at the very least, subsided to an odd freezing sensation, and his left arm has long since become numb from its continued position hanging from the hook. After both of the two previous sessions, Long Coat had lifted him off and either slammed or let him drop to the ground, but not today –or tonight, whichever one it is isn’t quite important at the moment.

Nevertheless, Lafayette is relieved that, if nothing else, his injured shoulder is mercifully left to hang at a less straining level.

But all of these facts are a mere haze in Lafayette’s mind; he’s taken refuge in thoughts of his home, having shut off the onslaught of pain his captors inflicted on him for minutes, or perhaps even hours.

Indeed, on today’s visit, he had been unable to stop himself from crying out at the very first snap of the whip, and from then on, he had not been able to keep quiet. Still, he had held the tears firmly at bay.

He must hold on to whatever dignity he has left, after all.

His broken cries had eventually died down, his throat too dry to do anything more than let way for drawn out whimpers and gasps. Still, he had continued to flinch even after the whip had stopped tearing into his flesh.

He had not heard the footsteps retreat and the door to his prison slam shut, leaving him still hanging from the hook , nor does he hear it creak open a quarter of an hour later.

Lafayette’s eyes are closed and have been for some immeasurable time now, his thoughts lost in blissful reveries.

Behind his eyelids, he sees a beautiful river. The sun reflects on the water, making it sparkle as bright as stars. The grass surrounding the gentle current is as healthy green as can be, long and soft. Above it, birds fly across the cloudless blue sky, propelled by a warm breeze.

Lafayette imagines himself there, forces the memories to come forth into his mind.

His heart clenches at the sight of Alexander, lying next to him on the smooth pasture, his dark violet eyes half-lidded but bright with contentment, his lips pulled into a relaxed smile.

The Marquis remembers that day in this little piece of Eden with his dearest friend, his lover.

Indeed, so rare are the times when Lafayette may witness this side of Alexander, that he endeavors to engrave each detail of them into memory. He remembers having thanked Washington for deciding to set down camp in such a lovely area for that reason as well.

What a shame the General himself had not allowed himself such a commodity as a peaceful respite on this beautiful day.

Thus, it becomes easy for Lafayette to lose himself into that echo of his precious recollections.

He reaches out with his hand to brush away a stray lock of Alexander’s silk-like hair, sneakily intertwining a wild purple scabiosa to it as he tucks it behind his ear. Alexander takes no notice past a pleased sigh at the gentle touch, leaning closer. Lafayette happily indulges him, shifting his hand to cradle his cheek lovingly.

_“Alexander...”_

How can such a lovely creature belong in a war so hateful?

War is ugly, Lafayette thinks, _draining_ , and sometimes destructive of his belief that humans are good by nature.

But Alexander is the opposite of all of that; Alexander gives him hope. He is beautiful in his entirety and his mind rivals no other, for no one could even dare to claim to parallel such ever-growing intelligence and wit. His skill with words leaves even the most seasoned wordsmith to shame.

His body is just as sacred and breathtaking as any temple, and should be treated as such –which Lafayette has endeavored to do as often as possible.

When it comes to strategizing, Lafayette is indeed unwavering in his beliefs that no one can best Alexander. Unlike his fellow soldiers who understandably succumb to both physical and emotional exhaustion, Alexander seemingly never wavers in his faith in the cause and repeatedly proves himself to be the most capable soldier in their company.

Moreover, this attitude has earned the sharp-minded man the respect of the General, and yet, instead of accepting the advantages that come with the unspoken invitation for favoritism, Alexander remains humble and continues to seek any and all way to substantiate his usefulness.

 _Yes,_ the Caribbean orphan without a cent to his name does indeed quest for glory and recognition, a legacy to build from nothing, but he does so with honor and with the prioritized objective of freeing a country in which he is absurdly considered a pest.

From the moment Alexander had shared the history of his origins and his aspirations with him, Lafayette had felt his heart had flooded with overwhelming love, understanding the other man all too well, despite their flagrant opposite upbringings.

_“...Lafayette?”_

Alexander’s voice sounds different, deeper, as he calls for his attention.

Something begins pulling at Lafayette’s mind, demanding for him to leave this sacred place. Something darker urges him to warn Alexander, but the Frenchman shakes it off; _there is no threat here, there never was a threat_ _._

He focuses on Alexander’s glittering eyes instead, leaning forward with a shaky sigh. He has long since lost count of how many times they have kissed since the start of their entanglement, and yet every single brush of their lips is enough to cause fireworks to erupt from his very core.

_“Alexander...”_

Then, Lafayette is rolled onto his back, Alexander a pleasant weight on top of him. He laughs, but not too loud as to drown his companion’s melodious giggles. He savors the show of mirth, wrapping his arms around Alexander’s waist, keeping him close. The smell uniquely belonging to Alexander graces his nose, and he takes a deep inhale of it.

Alexander’s chuckles slowly fade, but his smile remains, mischievous and playful and blissful. Lafayette, overcome with a wave of pure, unadulterated love, squeezes Alexander tighter to his chest. If he could, he would cease time to remain in this moment forever.

_“Alexander...”_

“Mr. Lafayette?”

Lafayette’s eyes snap open in surprise, reality instantly and sickeningly crashing back into him.

He jerks against the hold of his chain from the shock of being ripped away from his prized memory. The pain from his back slams back into him as well, followed by the fear momentarily gripping at him.

Alexander is not here, but someone else is. At first, Lafayette believes the voice to belong to one of an enemy, until the fog of blissful daydreaming vanishes properly from his mind.

He places a name to the voice, and breathes in deeply in an attempt to calm his furious heart.

Slowly, he glances over his shoulder for confirmation. Sighing, he offers the man behind him a tired smile that does not reach his ears.

“ _Docteur_ ,” Lafayette croaks in greeting, somewhat still reeling from the abruptness with which he was brought back to the present.

He means to add a pleasantry, or a quip, even considers pleading for something to alleviate the pain, but he closes his mouth instead, letting his head hang forward and his eyes flutter shut.

He is too weary to form words and keep up this farce of a camaraderie.

“I have been authorized to set you down for the night,” Brocklesby says as he reaches for the chain. “However, I must request your assistance in the matter, for I am not as strong as to lift your full weight by myself.”

Lafayette almost wishes to catch onto the bait and tease the doctor about making insinuation on his weight, but he finds his own humor currently distasteful and unwelcomed. Therefore, he keeps quiet.

He hasn’t seen the doctor in a few days, not since the man had taken his stitches out. Perhaps it is a good sign, then, that he has been sent back in to treat Lafayette. Perhaps it will earn him a longer recovery time.

If the doctor is perturbed about his continued silence, he does not comment upon it. He simply steps to the side, taking a firm hold of the chain while hooking his other arm under Lafayette’s left bicep.

“Draw your right leg forward, if you please,” he instructs. “Foot firm on the ground, that’s it.”

Lafayette struggles to do as he is told, his leg shaking with the small effort. He bites down a groan, his body sore and aching as though he’s been trampled by a herd of Spanish bulls for days on end.

“On the count of three, rise as high as you can.” Brocklesby directs patiently. “One, two, three.”

Lafayette applies his weight and what is left of his strength to his leg, pushing against the cold, hard cobblestone under his foot. He stumbles, his muscles seemingly useless. Still, he persists, supported by the doctor’s firm grip on his arm.

He hears the rattle of chain as he struggles to remain half-standing, his eyes still screwed shut in concentration.

Barely a couple seconds later, his limbs capitulate, and he crumples with a sharp exhale of breath. The doctor’s arm quickly comes to encircle his waist, supporting his weight as he carefully lowers him to the ground.

Lafayette whimpers breathlessly at the brush against the open welts, flinching at the coldness of the floor against his burning skin. Brocklesby proceeds to position him to lay on his stomach, allowing Lafayette to press his cheek against the uneven stones with an exhausted sigh.

The bone-weary Frenchman says nothing, even as the doctor begins cleaning his back. He barely reacts past a twitch of his brow and a quiet groan at the stinging feeling –he’s gotten used to the sharp smell and the sensation of his flesh made safe from infection, after all. Given that he has been regularly faced with the level of burning that comes with having his shoulder and calf taken care of, the treatment on the shallow streaks of open flesh of his back pales by comparison.

What pains him the most, however, is the feeling of dread that has yet to leave his nerves. He fears the next time his captors will enter his cell.

How much longer will they mercilessly tear into his skin? How much longer will he be able to endure it?

By God, he wishes Alexander were here.

The thought shames him, as he shouldn’t want to have his beloved friend, _his dearest Alexander_ , in danger –least of all in the hands of torture-friendly British soldiers.

Still, he cannot help but long for Alexander’s comforting presence, knowing that he would never doubt himself and his ability to remain secretive with the Caribbean man at his side.

Although, should anyone threaten Alexander’s life, or even promise him torturous bodily torment, Lafayette is not confident he would not bargain secrets to keep his lover out of harm’s way.

Nevertheless, if Alexander were here, his sharp intellect would come up with a strategy to outsmart their captors and escape.

If John were here, his bravery would push them to attack the British soldiers every single day until they’d emerge victorious.

Once again, he chases away the horrid thought of Alexander and John having perished in the retreat. It simply cannot be.

Lafayette knows he is not as quick-witted as Alexander, nor as courageous as John. Perhaps that is why he was captured. Perhaps that is why his enemies see him as weak enough to exploit.

He is not as strong as Washington; he is unable to wield strength, neither mentally nor physically, as fiercely as his General. He is incapable of turning any situation to his advantage, to enforce fear into his enemies with his mere presence. He has not the amplitude of Washington’s dignity, as his raw throat reminds him.

All Lafayette seems to be able to do is take what is inflicted upon him with crude vocals and silent prayers.

“You are unusually tame tonight,” Doctor Brocklesby comments idly as he continues to slowly dab at the few open slices of skin, bringing Lafayette back from his musings.

Lafayette keeps his eyes closed, reluctant to see the pity in the doctor’s eyes. He attempts to muster a light-hearted response, but, much to his embarrassment, only manages to produce a wounded-like noise from the back of his throat that sounds suspiciously like a sob.

It is _not_ a sob, Lafayette thinks with faltering conviction. He will not shed a _single_ tear for his enemies. He mustn’t.

However, the silence that follows weights down heavily on him as he receives the impression that Brocklesby is allowing him to compose himself. He is both thankful and ashamed for it.

Lafayette has no desire to speak, unwilling to further humiliate himself tonight, least of all in front of the only man who’s treated him humanely thus far.

“I received a letter from my wife this morning,” Brocklesby then says conversationally a couple minutes later. The statement surprises Lafayette, who hadn’t expected such a random phrase. “The foliage has already begun in the region of our home. A fortnight sooner than last year, she says.”

Lafayette remains silent, but focuses on the words, both intrigued and relieved to have such innocent information offered to him. He cracks his eyes open just a bit, glancing up at the older man curiously, prompting him to continue.

The doctor’s lips quirk up slightly, a look of fond reminiscence adorning his expression.

“She has included a leaf in her letter, bright orange, having found it entangled in her hair after a particularly windy afternoon. She is certain it fell from the old chestnut tree that watches over our garden. A beautiful token of nature, that tree, in our opinion. She enjoys drawing sketches of it throughout the seasons. Our walls are full of them.”

An image of a great, large tree with a colorful foliage forms in Lafayette’s mind, the leaves shifting with the wind. It makes for a soothing image.

“What is her name, your wife?” the Marquis asks quietly, hesitant. He is unsure whether the question crosses a line. But the soft look that passes through the doctor’s eyes tells him it doesn’t.

“Amelia. Millie, for short,” Brocklesby answers. “We have been married for almost twenty years. That tree, however, is far older than the both of us from the looks of it. Our children, Benjamin, Jacob, and little Elizabeth, have spent many hours climbing its thick trunk and lower branches, collecting the sturdiest chestnuts within reach for their mother to roast over the fireplace. They are all grown now, but I have no doubt that their own children will one day revive the tradition.”

“Where are they now?” Lafayette is genuinely curious. It is entirely possible that the two male offsprings have enlisted in the British Army, giving their father’s position. Brocklesby’s tone when speaking their names has not indicated any grief, thus the Frenchman fears not asking.

From the proud puffing of the older man’s chest, he knows it was the right subject to query about.

“The eldest, Benjamin, is following in my footsteps and pursuing a degree in medicine, in England. Jacob will be attending King’s College next spring to study law. And Elizabeth, I should venture to say she must be about your age. She remains home in Maryland with her mother, although she is engaged to be wed come next summer.” He huffs amusedly. “A fine gentleman, a merchant sailor.”

Lafayette takes in the particulars of Brocklesby’s children, thinking that the man must have been –and still is– a good father.

“Do you see your family often?” he asks then.

A forlorn frown appearing on the doctor’s brow making Lafayette instantly regret asking, but it is too late to retract his answer as the older man sighs. “I have not seen them in two years.”

The Frenchman hesitates. What can he say? Is it even his place to comment on the subject? To reassure the man by saying that at least his children and wife are safe from the war? Are they truly?

_No one is._

“Where did you meet your beloved?” he ends up asking in a whisper, avoiding eye contact with the other man.

“Ah,” Brocklesby breathes with a fond tone, “Now that is quite the story.”

As the doctor launches into the tale of his and his wife’s first meeting, Lafayette closes his eyes, his body exhausted while his mind remains attentive. The doctor’s revelations about his family, his home, make him all the more melancholic for his own military one. Yet, they also soothe him, knowing that not all humanity is beyond reach, that not all men from beyond the enemy line are soulless and evil.

He does not register when an extra apple is set beside him, nor the thin blanket that is draped over him, having been lulled to sleep by Doctor Brocklesby’s calming voice.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://discord.gg/bsjVpjz8Qb


	12. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers! My apologies for the wait, but exam season is now over!! Woohoo!
> 
> TWO WARNINGS for this chapter:  
> -Smut time  
> -as the tag once said: a gratitious use of French, ehehe
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it! If you would rather not read the smut, you may skip this chapter, as it is not completely vital to the plot. 
> 
> *** Until next time, and come say hi on our Discord: https://discord.gg/bsjVpjz8Qb ***

* * *

_Eight months earlier_

One might call this night a fateful moment in time, a series of circumstances destined to follow a trail predesigned for each and every participant included in the ensuing events.

Not Alexander, however. Alexander Hamilton have never believed in Fate, not since the innocent and naïve age of eleven.

And yet.

_“Can I buy you a drink?”_

Alexander’s running mouth once again earns him the attention of strangers, unsurprisingly quite shortly after his arrival in New York too.

Aaron Burr, a man he had heard about and sought to imitate by way of quick study, had reluctantly listened to him talk, and, most importantly, showed a pinch of curiosity for Alexander, which is all he needed.

Disappointingly, however, Burr had not been what Alexander had expected.

Despite nearly changing his mind about accepting to accompany Burr for a drink due to the man’s so-called advice about talking less –a suggestion Alexander had despised his entire life–, he had swallowed down his annoyance and followed the Princeton graduate to a local tavern.

Hence how Alexander finds himself led to a quaint little premise, both looking and sounding lively even from the outside.

As any other drinking establishment, the noise is loud enough to immediately set him on edge, which prompts him to look around the interior. He quickly becomes aware of a disruptive set of voices somewhere in the tavern, and thus discreetly scans the occupants of the room until his eyes land on a small group of men sitting in a table be one of the windows.

It is not difficult to surmise the source of the rowdiest debate, given the wild gesturing of the three occupants of the aforementioned table.

What initially keeps his gaze in their direction, however, comes in the form of the tallest member of the group, whose features describe an age close if not identical to Alexander’s. He is, objectively, handsome. Then again, so are his two companions. But this man, his smile, bright and gleeful, causes Alexander’s heart to inexplicably jump out of rhythm.

The nearby sound of Burr clearing his throat snaps Alexander out of a trance he had not realized to have entered, and together they move through the crowd to find a table. They are too far from the alluring stranger’s, in Alexander’s opinion.

He and Burr attempt to make conversation, but Alexander’s interest in the man quickly fades, already nonplussed by his earlier statements, and now further unimpressed by his cautious diction.

The boisterous trio –the ‘Revolutionary Set’ as he’d later learn them to self-proclaim–, however, easily gain his attention with their proud declarations of allegiance to the Revolution, as opposed to Burr’s quiet support.

Furthermore, Alexander’s eyes continuously and stubbornly gravitate back towards the intriguing, jovial stranger, whose clothes and elegant white wig clearly state a higher social standing than most in the tavern, yet whose stance loudly declares a lack of self-centered superiority.

Intriguing indeed.

Alexander’s pushes back against his chair before he can fully process his decision to do so, perhaps cutting Burr off in whatever irrelevant declaration he might have been making, and takes a step in the direction of the table whose boldness has caught most of the patrons’ attention.

With each step he takes, the voices begin to differentiate and claim an owner, allowing Alexander to realize that the French lilt he had believed to have heard earlier belongs to the subject of his yet unstable heartbeat’s unusual interest.

Alexander stops in his track at a respectable distance and _listens_.

He is finally brought out of this eerie daze by what he can now hear with more distinction; he finds a kinship in John Laurens’ heartfelt ambition for equality, an understanding in Hercules Mulligan’s aspiration to socially advance, and a–

 _“I came from afar, just to say_ ‘bonsoir’ _, tell the King_ ‘casse-toi’ _!”_

Alexander is unable to conjure a name for what he finds in Lafayette at this time, but he does chuckle under his breath.

His laughter stops abruptly as the group suddenly turns in his direction, the freckled man pointing at him–

_“Aaron Burr! Give us a verse, drop some knowledge!”_

Alexander exhales a breath he hadn’t known to have held, glancing behind him to see Burr approaching at the bequest of the men. He watches with pursed lips as Burr responds to their request of a few words to reflect their encouragement of a revolution by a heedful warning.

Alexander finally gives in to his arguably unruly tongue, telling Burr what he’s wanted to say when he’d been told to talk less.

_“If you stand for nothing, Burr, what will you fall for?”_

If the look of surprise and annoyance that crosses Burr’s expression satisfies Alexander’s need for retaliation, then it no one’s business but his own.

Besides, now that all three pairs of eyes are redirected at him, Burr once again becomes invisible to Alexander.

_“Who are you?”_

These are the first words the Frenchman– _Lafayette_ addresses to him directly, his accent endearingly thick. Alexander doubts he will ever forget these words, as banal a question as they may have formed. He will surely never forget the unprecedented sensation of his brain temporarily ceasing all functions.

He shakes himself off, knowing that this is the moment to begin making his mark.

 _“I am not throwing away my shot_ _,_ _”_ is what he answers, both to himself and to the group.

Alexander rapidly makes his case, focused on conducting the best version of a confident speaker as he possibly can, even as he notices the intensity with which Lafayette’s eyes gleam and bore into him. Alexander preens under the attention, more so than under Laurens’ and Mulligan’s curious and impressed ones.

There is indeed something he cannot yet pinpoint about Lafayette that seem to draw him in. Perhaps it is the Frenchman’s assertive, rebellious and eccentric character, his hardened desire for freedom for France and America, or even his charming boasting when speaking of battles yet to come.

Perhaps it is all three. And yet, the apt word to describe this feeling continues to escape him, a treachery rarely mutinied by his mind.

To his delight and secret relief, Alexander finds himself invited to share a round of drinks or three with the trio, encouraged to speak further on the matter of the upcoming Revolution. His confidence grows with each cheer thrown his way, emboldened by Laurens’ calls of agreement, by Mulligan’s teasing imitations of gunfire, and Lafayette’s vigorous table-banging, the latter which Alexander uses as an excuse to repeatedly redirect his gaze towards the Frenchman.

Hours pass, and the tavern must inevitably close. However, all four men wordlessly agree to continue their discussion and enjoyment outside. They continue to drink from Laurens and Mulligan’s flasks while expressing their intentions for the Revolution on the streets, hanging off each other’s shoulders and laughing at all and nothing.

It becomes amusedly obvious that John and Hercules are further into a state of inebriation than Alexander and Lafayette. The latter’s hand is currently brushing Alexander’s as they help their stumbling South Carolinian friend stand upright after he is nearly brought down by a pothole.

The entire evening seems to have passed in a haze of genuine enjoyment and overwhelming sense of belonging. Only when John and Hercules bid Alexander and Lafayette a good night does Alexander properly let the realization that he’s made new friends set in.

He smiles, besides himself with giddiness.

“I do hope they are not too _ivres_ to find their way,” comes Lafayette’s French lilted accent once their two friends are gone from sight.

Surprisingly, the Frenchman now seems much less affected by the generous amount of alcohol he’d consumed with them than he did mere minutes earlier.

In fact, his tone of voice sounds somewhat different now that it is just the two of them. More serious, or so it seems to his ears. Alexander feels a tinge of worry that perhaps Lafayette is not as enthusiastic about welcoming him into their set as he had thought and hoped him to be.

One glance at the other man, however, disparages any concerns Alexander had risked developing as he takes in Lafayette’s lips part into a relaxed smile and his open posture.

All the more so when the Frenchman suddenly grabs a hold of a nearby street light post and swings from it in a smooth circle with the grace of a dancer.

Alexander thus learns that the man’s bumbling demeanour is simply his natural way to be. However, it does not explain the earlier change in tone. Perhaps it is simply fatigue.

Together they begin their way back midtown at a slow, unhurried pace, in a comfortable silence. They walk closely, just enough to have their hands occasionally brush on accident. Lafayette’s hands are soft, Alexander notes, definitely an aristocrat’s.

While he’s learned of Lafayette’s status of Marquis, Alexander had also been proven to be correct in his assumption that the Frenchman did not consider his societal station to be reason for obnoxious entitlement, as opposed to many of equal standing he’d met.

It is both refreshing and agreeable to find this honorable trait in the Frenchman, while also most bothersome, as it only serves to increase the pull Alexander feels inside himself. Although in all honesty, he’d found himself already caught in Lafayette’s orbit hours prior, enticed by the man’s words, his laugh, his eyes, his looks, his still-developing English, his _damn smile–_

It doesn’t occur to Alexander to part ways while they are still downtown where he is staying at a run-down establishment. He doesn’t want this life-changing evening to end quite yet, and it seems his new friend is disinclined to do so as well.

The fact pleases him immensely.

“You have impressed me with your words this night, Monsieur Hamilton,” Lafayette states suddenly, breaking the quietness of the streets.

Alexander clears his throat, stalling to give his brain time to leap back into action. The effect of alcohol has mostly dissipated from his system, and yet his mind feels ridiculously out of step.

“I aim to astonish, Monsieur Lafayette,” he answers with a tilt of his chin and a cocky grin, unflinching but tensing when the other man throws an arm around his shoulders with a loud bark of laughter.

“Yes, so you say, so we have seen.” Lafayette’s voice then takes a deeper pitch, “Yet I wonder _comment encore_ you may astonish me tonight.”

Alexander’s entire body heats up at the innuendo. He is unsure whether his imagination is running wild with the inhibition of alcohol or if the Marquis is truly suggesting a dalliance. Should it be the latter, then Alexander is even less sure how he would respond to such an invitation.

Interestingly enough, the thought of it does not make him recoil in disgust nor complete shock. Perhaps it is the alcohol still clouding his judgment.

“Ah, _regarde!_ ” Lafayette suddenly exclaims, saving Alexander from having to respond to his confusing teasing as he points to a bakery. “This establishment, ah, _cuit_ the finest bread in New York. I will take you when it opens. My word as a _maître des baguettes_.”

Alexander laughs at the solemn declaration. “ _’_ _Maître des baguettes_ , you say? Quite the title.”

Lafayette grins widely, his smile sending something akin to butterflies to Alexander’s stomach. He has yet to pull his arm away from Alexander’s shoulders.

“ _Absolument_.” He bows with an exaggerated flourish of his coat. “Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette, _Maître des Baguettes, au service de l’Amérique._ ”

“That cannot be your name,” Alexander deadpans, astonished.

Lafayette wiggles his eyebrows in challenge. “Care to try reciting it?”

To Alexander’s credit, he only mistakes ‘Yves’ and ‘Roch’s placements once before getting the Marquis’ full name and titles –including the newest addition– correctly. Lafayette is delighted, shouting a thrilled ‘ _bravo_ ’ in the empty streets at Alexander’s victory.

Alexander laughs along as Lafayette launches into a rant about the many times his names have been botched, especially since arriving to America a couple weeks prior. His fingers tap Alexander’s shoulder in emphasis, which the smaller man finds both endearing and distracting.

Their amusement eventually fades back to a warm simmer, as they continue to walk in resumed companiable silence for a block, Lafayette’s arm still holding them close together.

Lafayette’s voice is light and curious when he declares, “Your French _pron_ _o_ _nciation_ is different than John. I know he is taught the language from young, but _quelques_ sounds cannot be learned not from, ah, _autrement que par naissance._ ”

Alexander hums in agreement, mind still mildly softened by the multiple rounds of drinks and joyous atmosphere of the evening with his new brothers-in-arm to filter his words. “I was taught back home.”

“And where is back home?” Lafayette asks without missing a beat.

A little warning bell dings in Alexander’s brain. He looks up with narrowed eyes at the Frenchman. “Why so many questions, Monsieur Lafayette?”

“Please, _appelle-moi Gilbert_.” Lafayette shifts his hand closer to Alexander’s neck, thumb brushing the skin above his collar. “And I am simply _curieux_ to know the story of such a, what it is you said, ‘diamond in the rough’?”

Alexander relaxes once more even as the spot where Lafayette effloresced his skin heats up, shaking his head amusedly. He really had laid it thick with his introduction to these then-strangers.

“Then perhaps a ‘shiny piece of coal’ holds more accuracy if one is to hear my tale,” he then wets his lips tentatively before concluding in a softer tone, “ _Gilbert._ ”

Lafayette’s lips quirk up in an appreciative smirk. “ _Non non, mon ami_ ,” he admonishes playfully. “For you, a diamond is much more accuracy.”

“Accurate,” Alexander corrects gently, his cheeks taking on a red tinge.

“Accurate, _oui merci_ , I am glad you agree.” He grins cheekily at Alexander’s huff of laughter. “But if I may make _une_ _comparaison_ _personelle_ _?_ ”

He doesn’t wait for Alexander’s assent, the question most likely rhetorical, and steps in front of Alexander to face him. Lafayette’s fingers slide across the back of his neck, leaving behind a trail of gooseflesh, settling down on his bicep. His gaze is earnest, and unless Alexander is mistaken, heated as well.

The fresh night air finally seems to return Alexander’s full soberness, permitting him to keep a sharper focus on his new friend’s dark eyes rather than on the pair of pink and soft-looking lips.

“There is another _pierre précieuse_ that I believe would belong to you most,” the Frenchman tells him almost conspiratorially, leaning slightly closer. “The beautiful _am_ _é_ _thyst_ _e_ , yes?”

Alexander blinks, suddenly feeling very scrutinized, and not in the usual wary way most people who meet him do. His nose picks up Lafayette’s cologne from his close position, a sweet and spiced mix of wildflowers and sandalwood. It sets his senses alight.

He clears his throat of the lump that attempts to form there.

“An ornamental stone,” he points out with a raised eyebrow. “Not as sturdy or rare as a diamond.”

“Perhaps not,” Lafayette concedes. “But the _am_ _é_ _thyst_ _e_ is sharp, intuitive, and most _resplendissante_.”

The faint blush already on Alexander’s cheeks deepens in shade, but still, he is unable to break eye contact with the alluring Frenchman. He swallows down a rebuttal, letting the compliments wash over him pleasantly instead.

“ _Et aussi_ ,” Lafayette adds, moving back to Alexander’s side, setting a slow pace while keeping his hand on his arm, “it is the same as your eyes. If I am not careful, I may lose myself in them.”

At that, Alexander barks out a laugh, the sound somewhat nervous. “Should you not keep such words of poetry for the long line of maidens which certainly awaits you?”

Even as he asks, a spark of jealousy flickers inside of him at the thought of Lafayette giving his attention to anyone other than him. With a frown, he brushes off the odd feeling.

Fatigue, nothing more.

It is Lafayette’s turn to laugh, squeezing Alexander’s arm amiably. “Monsieur Hamilton, the world is much a sweeter place if everyone simply recite poetry to each other, _non?_ ”

Lafayette promptly begins reciting poems in French, some of which Alexander recognizes to belong to Benserade. He chuckles at the Frenchman’s romanticism, finding the trait compelling in contrast to the harshness of life. As a matter of fact, he finds everything he’s seen so far of Lafayette to be enthralling. His passionate vision of the world, his aspirations, his determination.

Alexander cannot deny that he also finds his physical features to be quite pleasing. Even sober, the thought still doesn’t quite alarm him, as he’s long since noticed his own attraction to the male form.

However, it remains wholly unwelcomed in the world they live in, and thus in his own life.

People have often told him that his eyes express too much, and it would not do to have the Marquis appalled by his thoughts. Although, given the Frenchman’s overall attitude, Alexander doubts he would feel too insulted.

Perhaps, a small voice in his mind whispers to him, he would even reciprocate them.

Nevertheless, this situation remains out of Alexander’s zone of comfort and knowledge. He has never had the opportunity to act on his sinful impulses with a man, and frankly, never had as much desire to do so as he does right this moment, with this intriguing and exquisite-looking man–

“Alexander,” he suddenly says, needing to bring himself out of his own thoughts. “You may call me Alexander.”

Lafayette looks down at him from where he had been staring up at the stars, a slow smile pulling at his lips.

“ _Alexander_.” His name slides off his tongue like honey, sending a shiver down Alexander’s spine. “Tell me, have you a _fiancée_ to address you so _familièrement_ as well?”

The abrupt change of subject startles Alexander into another nervous bout of laughter. “No, no one as such, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, _quelle tragédie_ , having no person to wake up next,” Lafayette muses, his distorted English pulling a smile from Alexander. “Do you not agree, Alexander?”

Alexander glances at the Frenchman briefly, suddenly taken by the thoughts of wanting to rectify his solidary situation by rousing next to Lafayette’s brilliant smile come morning. The notion causes him to stutter out his response.

“O-Of course.” He clears his throat, giving himself a mental shake. “Although with the Revolution looming, should it not be wiser to forgo such attachments when one might easily perish on the battlefield?”

Lafayette hums thoughtfully, his gaze still intently focused on the smaller man. “ _Mais dans la mort, ne trouvons-nous pas raison d’aimer plus hardement?_ ”

Alexander swallows, and tucks an invisible strand of hair behind his ear. The Marquis’ insinuations are beginning to truly affect his common sense, dipped in temptation as they are; a forbidden fruit so close to reach, so seducing. This must cease, else he be doomed by his own sinful desires.

Alexander doesn’t realize he’s remained silent too long until Lafayette speaks again. “You have yet to tell me where you are from.”

Whereas Alexander would usually shut down such a direct question, he now feels compelled to be honest with the man at his side, despite the battling emotions raging war within his mind and his heart.

Perhaps it is Lafayette’s seemingly open-mindedness, the genuine innocent curiosity in his voice rather than mockery, or both. He takes a deep breath, keeping his gaze ahead. At least the topic has returned to somewhat safer grounds.

He truly must cease allowing his imagination to run wild with such fictive and impermissible thoughts.

“I am from the Nevis,” he says quietly, jaw clenched with disdain. What he would not trade to erase his forsaken past. “A forgotten island in the Caribbean. I have... as of only recently arrived to America.”

Lafayette chuckles lightly, making Alexander tense up and snap his head towards him, a defensive retort ready on his tongue. To his surprise, however, he finds no scorn on the handsome Frenchman’s face, only comprehension.

“You are much guarded of this information,” Lafayette remarks before pausing. “There is no shame to be _un_ _immigrant_. We get the job done, after all, do we not?”

Before Alexander can respond, they come to a stop on the side of a relatively respected-looking tavern. It is dark inside, the shoppe closed at this late hour. The alleys and lanes are deserted, with only a couple of street lights still dimly lit across the road from the establishment. A stairway above them leads up to a row of doors. One of them must be Lafayette’s room, Alexander suspects.

He is startled back to his companion as Lafayette carefully takes a hold of his hand, lifts it up to his lips, and deposits a slow kiss upon his knuckles without breaking eye contact.

“I understand your _réticence_ about your life, Alexander,” he says, not letting go of his hand, “But we are more than the place where we were born, _ou que le cercle social dans lequel nous puissions avoir été élevés_.”

Alexander exhales shakily, having not expected such heartening and doubt-dispelling words. He can recall only one person in his life to have told him similar encouragements, and the years since then have been long, and her memory lingers in his mind like the sickness that took her away.

“And you,” Lafayette continues, his voice softening as if aware of Alexander’s sudden streak of melancholy. He takes a step closer, their chests almost touching, “You, _petite_ _améthyste_ , will astonish the world.”

“Just you wait,” Alexander whispers, finally aware of how fast his heart is beating. He hears his convictions shattering in the face of such a breath-taking, mind-staggering entity as Lafayette.

As beautiful as Aphrodite’s own creation, as wise and understanding as an old friend ought to be after decades of kinship, as loyal as the most ardent patriot. As tempting as the Devil’s own silver promises.

Lafayette’s eyes flicker down to his lips, and this time Alexander can no longer ignore the signals, the blatant invitation. His body is screaming ‘ _yes!_ ’ while his mind is urging caution. Together, sense versus folly, they create a burning desire for the most profound of all intimacies.

Plunging into this unknown would surely be a brash decision, one Alexander ought to mull over a while longer, long enough to convince himself it is a foolish idea. Perhaps with a few days of peace and quiet. Instead, he leans in and closes his eyes, his lips connecting softly with Lafayette’s.

Alexander Hamilton was never known for taking his time, after all.

Everything falls silent within his mind, including its protests, swiftly replaced by waves of colors and a unique feeling of _right_. Lafayette’s lips are warm against his, soft and not all different from a woman’s, yet also the complete opposite. There is no more doubt about the cogency of tonight’s turn of events, not when this action procures him such overwhelming peace of heart.

Lafayette pulls back not long after, however, their kiss having remained chaste. Alexander instinctively chases after him, but Lafayette’s hand on his chest halts him. A small sound of protest and want traitorously escape Alexander’s throat.

Lafayette chuckles. “If you kiss me again,” he whispers sultrily, his accent suddenly and endearingly much thicker, “I will not be able to stop.”

“I shan’t ask you to,” Alexander presses, the tingling on his lips begging to be reignited. It seems all his caution has been thrown to the wind from that single kiss.

Lafayette leans forward, his voice a near growl in Alexander’s ear. “I will rather ravish you in the privacy of my bed, four walls to silence your _gémissements._ ”

When their eyes meet again, both pairs of pupils are blown wide. Alexander nods sharply before he can think it properly through, both thrilled and nervous to the bone.

Lafayette grins, seductive and satisfied, and pulls him forward by the hand, guiding him up the stairs and towards the sixth door from the right. He pulls a key from his inner pocket, and unlocks it swiftly. He ushers Alexander inside before locking it back.

Alexander allows his eyes to glance down at the Frenchman’s backside, a spark already igniting in his groin. He idly wonders how this man, a complete stranger mere hours ago, is able to revive these forbidden desires within after years of self-repression.

His thoughts are interrupted as soon as the lock slides into place, as he finds himself spun around and pinned to the door, a pair of hungry lips upon his own.

All possible thoughts of fear of repercussions and doubt for the sake of his soul fly out the nearest window –which, in a literal sense, is thankfully covered by a curtain, plunging them in the sweet safety of near darkness.

Alexander moans into the passionate kiss, his entire body erupting with fireworks as Lafayette’s tongue comes to greet his in an amorous dance. His hands bury themselves in Alexander’s hair, undoing his queue. All blood rushes south at an impressive speed, prompting Alexander to buck his hips forward. Lafayette presses back just as eagerly, albeit with more decorum.

They break apart for air, both men panting and aroused. The air is already thick with heat –or so it feels to them–, both unwilling to move from their current closeness while longing for the bed only a few feet away.

“I wish for light,” Lafayette says breathlessly, sounding as affected as Alexander feels, “ _Je ne souhaite pas être privé de ta beauté_ _._ ”

Alexander, in yet another surprising twist of events, finds himself unable to conjure up a response. He nods uselessly, even as Lafayette already takes a couple steps back to reach for what he assumes to be a lantern hung by the door.

There is a sound of an ignited match, followed by the sight of a small orange flame. It shines a vague light on Lafayette’s expression, which, to Alexander’s incoming virtuous demise, is afire with desire.

Lafayette quickly and efficiently rids them of the darkness of the night with two lanterns, which he brings to both bedside tables on each side of the bed, creating a somewhat divine illumination of the instrument of their sought-after pleasure.

Alexander finds his feet rooted to the spot, his eyes following every one of Lafayette’s movements, until the other man looks back up from his completed task, his form now perfectly visible. They lock eyes, and a teasing smirk pulls at the Frenchman’s lips as he, to all intents and purposes, stalks back to Alexander.

A predator readying to consume his prey.

Lafayette once again presses him against the door, albeit more cautiously than the first time, and, just like before, raises his hands to card them through Alexander’s shoulder-length hair reverently. They stand but a breath way, their lips inches from meeting, their gazes almost unblinking in their intensity.

Lafayette kisses him then, slowly this time, nearly on the side of shy; a small peck. A silent request for permission. Alexander swallows thickly, nodding shakily but without hesitation.

One of Lafayette’s hands slides down from Alexander’s hair towards the hem of his coat, giving it the barest pull to confirm what he intends to do. As a response, Alexander initiates another kiss.

The kiss deepens, but not as ravenously as the one Lafayette bestowed upon him a couple minutes prior. This one feels explorative and patient, yet no less excited.

As Lafayette divests Alexander from his coat, another fierce spark ignites within Alexander, as the unfolding of tonight’s intentions truly dawns upon him: he will lay with another man for the first time, with said-man being an unexplainable force of–

 _Attraction_. The word he’d sought after since first seeing and hearing Lafayette is _attraction_. The physical attraction, the desirability, is undisputable of course. However, Alexander means to give the word the definition of this emotional _pull_ he has been mystifyingly feeling inside his very core.

As his coat falls to the floor with a dull thud, Alexander disparages the complexity of this attraction to simply enjoy this thrilling moment. He returns the favor by ridding Lafayette of his own coat as well. Both men smile into the kiss, simultaneously pulling free each other’s cravats, before once again parting to breathe.

“You taste of Heaven, Alexander,” Lafayette purrs, proceeding to pepper kisses along the column of his throat, while his fingers deftly undo the buttons of his waistcoat. “Your skin must be _un_ _aphrodisia_ _que_ , for I cannot wait to taste every _centimètre_ of your body.”

Alexander groans at the promise, his breeches now properly and uncomfortably tight. He attempts to divest Lafayette of his waistcoat as well, but finds his fingers are shaking too much for the task. To his embarrassment, it does not go unnoticed by the Frenchman, who stops in his ministrations to look back up at Alexander’s wide, vulnerable eyes.

“You have never done this before, with another man?” Lafayette asks him gently –a sharp contrast to the deep, seductive rumbling just seconds before–, smiling softly when Alexander shakes his head ‘no’. He runs a hand through the smaller man’s dark locks. “Do not worry, _mon chou_ , I will guide you. We will proceed slowly, yes?”

Already true to his word, Lafayette places his hands on top of Alexander’s, helping him to slowly unbutton the piece of clothing. Alexander then tentatively slips his hands under Lafayette’s expensive-looking white silk shirt, feeling the taut muscles of his stomach under his exploring fingertips. More want drips into Alexander’s abdomen, having assuredly never felt as perfect a skin as Lafayette’s before. No women could ever hope to compare, despite their delicate curves and milky softness.

Alexander’s waistcoat is opened next without hesitation, pushed open until it too falls to the floor, followed by his cotton shirt pulled over his head to join the pile of clothing. His blush spreads to his bare chest as Lafayette gazes at him with open hunger.

“May I see you as well?” Alexander asks, feeling somewhat exposed by his state of undressed.

Lafayette smirks. “ _Bien sûr_ ,” he purrs, pulling off his own shirt swiftly. The sight of him makes Alexander’s mouth water. While he knows that he himself is by no means unattractive, Alexander would be inclined to believe to resemble a common hog compared to the Adonis standing in front of him. However, the Frenchman’s obvious desire blocks such beliefs.

Alexander dives back in for another kiss, this one more ferocious than the others, earning moans from both men as their clothed erections brush against each other. Lafayette slides his hands down Alexander’s chest, lightly scratching possessively, before settling behind his thighs.

Alexander yelps as he is suddenly lifted and pressed farther against the door. He wraps his legs around Lafayette’s hips and arms around his neck when prompted, whimpering when the new angle permits more friction.

He is aware of his current position to be the one in which he would usually place a female companion. He only now understands why they have been so welcoming of such handling.

“Gilbert,” he rasps between kisses. “Bed.” His unintelligent request receives a low chuckle.

“My my, Alexander,” Lafayette teases, his eyes alight with arousal and amusement. “Whatever has happened _à_ _cette langue élégante_ of yours?”

Alexander huffs in response, leaning to bite at the other man’s jaw. “Would you rather not I save it for other purposes?”

Lafayette growls at that, locking their lips once more as he shifts to effortlessly carry him to the large bed. He deposits him down carefully onto the mattress, climbing on top of him with purpose. Alexander is quickly rid of his shoes, breeches and socks.

When he is entirely bare as the day he was born, manhood hard and aching against his stomach, the heat that is Lafayette disappears for an instant. Alexander looks up to see the Marquis sitting back on his knees and simply gazing down at him with a look no words in Alexander’s vocabulary could possibly describe.

“You are magnificent, Alexander,” Lafayette breathes out reverently, his hands slipping up from Alexander’s calves to his thighs, parting the smaller man’s legs. “ _Incroyablement bellissime._ ”

Alexander trembles with an odd mixture of unusual bashfulness and intense desire. “ _Touche-moi_ ,” he whispers wantonly, spreading his legs all the more.

Lafayette does not need to be told twice. He leans back closer, and wraps a hand around the other man’s member. Alexander moans, high and loud, thrusting into the loose fist.

“Such a loud little thing you are,” Lafayette croons, giving him a slow, deliberate stroke and earning himself another moan, “Will you reach your _petite mort_ with only my hand, Alexander?”

Alexander shakes his head vehemently, despite knowing that at this point he very well could. However, let it be known that he is no selfish lover. Returning the enjoyment to a bed partner is as much pleasurable as it is receiving it. He paws at Lafayette’s breeches.

“Those, off. Now.”

Lafayette laughs fondly. “And to think only hours ago you were giving Thomas Paine a, how you say, challenge for his coin. Now look at you, without a word _sous l’emprise du désir_.”

Any retort Alexander may have dies on his tongue as Lafayette joins him in his nakedness, his entirety an absolute vision. Upon sight of his proportionate manhood, Alexander swallows thickly. _How will it ever fit?_

“Do not worry about that this night, _mon beau_ , for I will be the _receveur_ for your first time,” Lafayette says, and Alexander scolds himself for the embarrassment of accidentally voicing his concern.

Then Lafayette’s words click into his lust-clouded brain. He has no time to express his thoughts on the matter, as the naked and aroused Frenchman lays back down on top of him, their lengths slotting together wonderfully. Both men moan, although Alexander’s sounds out more like a keen.

“G-Gilbert...” The name falls from his lips like a relieved prayer.

“Oh, Alexander,” Lafayette answers with his own reverence, “I have wanted you like this since you first spoken.” Alexander doesn’t correct his English, every inch of his body too hot with desire for the Marquis to bother with grammar as they begin a slow grinding pace.

“Your voice, your body, your _eyes_ ,” the Frenchman continues, “You have seduced me, _bel orateur que tu es,_ stealing the air from me with your words, your thoughts.”

Alexander, ironically enough, finds himself speechless, too consumed with the wondrous feeling of having Lafayette move against him. Instead, he answers with a kiss, keeping Lafayette close with his knees on both side of the man’s hips.

Sweat begins to form on his temple at the sheer heat the friction is creating, building and seething low in his abdomen, already threatening to explode.

“I cannot h-hold on very long like this,” he stammers out against Lafayette’s parted lips, yet continues to rock into the rhythm, the slickness dripping between them smoothing the motion.

Lafayette hums, tilting his head to nip at his throat, sucking a mark at the juncture above his collarbone. Alexander whines, jerking at the pleasurable sensation. “Gilbert– _Ah_...” he gasps breathlessly as Lafayette’s slender fingers wrap around both their members, pumping them firmly. His other hand finds one of Alexander’s nipples, toying with it and eliciting the most desperate sounds from his companion.

“Do not fight it, Alexander,” he growls against the other man’s skin, “ _Laisse-toi aller pour moi_. Feel the madness I have endured _depuis que je t’ai apperçu pour la première fois_.” He bites down under Alexander’s jaw while giving a squeeze between their legs. Alexander cries out as his orgasm hits him fiercer than a wild wave.

He blinks the white spots from his vision, greedily gulping down air, barely registering the chaste kisses pressed to his chest. He could simultaneously fall asleep and run a mile, his body alive with something new. He looks down, intent on drawing Lafayette for a grateful kiss, but is stopped by the sight that greets him; Lafayette is licking Alexander’s release from his fingers with casual laps of his tongue, eyes closed in the way one would while savoring the most delicious of meals.

Alexander gapes at him, thinking that this action shouldn’t be as arousing as it is, his soft member already giving a twitch of resurrection.

Lafayette eventually opens his eyes, staring directly at Alexander as he finishes cleaning off his hand, smirking.

“I was correct,” the Frenchman declares, leaning back in to bestow a quick kiss to Alexander’s kiss-swollen lips. “Every part of you tastes of Heaven.”

The fires of arousal have let way for another kind of fire, stoked by Lafayette’s words. His words of teasing escape him as he notices the state of Lafayette, still hard and leaking.

And so, Alexander smirks in turn, before taking a hold on the Frenchman’s sides and flipping their positions, pinning the other man down. Lafayette emits a noise of surprise and delight, raising himself on his elbows to seek more affection.

But Alexander pushes him back down, chuckling at the pout that forms on the denied lips. His resolve maintains however, and he slides down Lafayette’s body until he is levelled with the current object of his desire.

He presses a kiss on the Marquis’ naval, earning a sharp breath above him. Next, he kisses below his hipbones, trailing down to the soft skin of his inner thighs, the musk of his manhood invading his nostrils in the most enticing way. Finally, he gives a tentative kiss to the tip of the throbbing shaft, followed by a lick.

Lafayette’s hips twitch upwards, and Alexander chances a look at his face, entertained to notice the concentration that adorns the Frenchman’s features. Alexander takes it as a challenge to break the aristocrat’s restraint and composure.

Placing his hands firmly on Lafayette’s twitching thighs, Alexander takes a deep breath and takes the length into his mouth as much as he physically can, in one surprisingly smooth motion. To his utter delight, Lafayette lets out a sharp cry which quickly melts into a low moan.

From then on, Alexander gives it his all, and whereas he lacks experience, he makes up for in vigor. Soon enough, Lafayette is a groaning mess under him, his hands tangled in Alexander’s hair, encouraging without being brusque. Alexander quickly becomes erect once more, titillated by his own actions and the sinful sounds that bless his ears.

To Alexander’s confusion however, Lafayette soon eases him off with a regretful grunt.

“I should like to, ah, to end with you inside of me,” he says, his voice heavy with lust. “If you are agreeable?”

Alexander blinks, and wipes his mouth of the excess saliva and other salty substance. “A-Agreeable? Yes. Yes, of course,” he stammers out, flushed with desire and anticipation.

Lafayette grins wickedly, and proceeds to reach towards the bedside table, opening the bottom drawer and pulling out a colorless bronze box. He winks at Alexander before opening it, retrieving a small bottle filled with a viscous yellowish liquid. He holds it up for Alexander to take as he discards the empty box.

“Oil will help to ease the passage since we, _au contraire des femmes_ , cannot produce such natural delicacy,” he informs him. “One finger first, then a second, and then I will tell you if that is enough for you to take me.”

Alexander nods in understanding. While he may be a novice in these matters in the company of another man, he is in no way a neophyte to the art of love making. Different sex, different orifice, but same objective: pleasure.

Although in this present case, he has no desire for it to be meaningless and detached.

“Will you let me know if I hurt you?” he asks nonetheless, earning himself a soft kiss.

“You are an attentive lover, Alexander.” Lafayette kisses him again before turning around and laying down on his stomach, spine curved to present his rear, entirely unashamed. Alexander finds himself enthralled by the sight the other man makes. His hand reaches out of its own accord to caress down the flawless spine, all the way to the plump and inviting curves of his backside. He cups a handful with lustful awe, making Lafayette sigh pleasantly.

Alexander eventually shakes himself out of his stupor and pulls the cork off the bottle under Lafayette’s watchful eye.

Pouring an accepting amount of oil onto his index and middle finger, Alexander shifts forward, laying his clean hand on Lafayette’s hip. With a final glance to the relaxed Frenchman for approval, he presses the tip of one finger to the rim of his entrance. Lafayette makes a small sound that shoots straight to Alexander’s groin. He pushes past the tight ring of muscles, gasping at the sudden heat that envelops his digit. Lafayette gasps as well, eyes fluttering close, clenching around the intrusion for a brief moment before easing again.

Alexander pulls his finger halfway out and pushes it back in just as slow. He repeats the motion a few more times before pausing inside.

“Is this alright?” Alexander asks, his voice wavering from the sheer amount of _want_.

“ _Oui, oui,_ it is g– _ah!_ ” Lafayette suddenly moans with an unexpected high pitch as Alexander crooks his finger. “ _Oh bon Dieu_ _–_ _C’est très bien, oui, juste là_ _..._ ”

Spurred on, Alexander repeats the movement, which draws another enticing sound as well as a French curse from his companion. Emboldened, he inserts a second slick finger, enchanted by the reaction it earns him.

Lafayette then pushes himself up on his elbows and knees, allowing him to move back freely on Alexander’s fingers, eager to receive more. The new position, Alexander thinks, is nothing short of the most sacrilegious of sins. It paints Lafayette as more beautiful than any work of art, a true masterpiece of God’s own hand.

Lafayette suddenly reaches for Alexander’s atop his hip, intertwining their fingers as yet another colorful swear escapes him. The gesture is more romantic than passionate, and serves to turn the butterflies in Alexander’s stomach into fireflies. He decides to deal with them later. For now, he endeavors to stretch Lafayette to the best of his abilities.

The Marquis, for all his moaned curses, is obviously enjoying himself. Alexander prides himself in being a quick learner, after all.

“ _C’est bon, tu peux–_ You can take me now,” Lafayette tells him breathlessly, shaking and barely able to keep his face from being buried against the pillow. His eyes burn with want as he makes his request. It makes Alexander swallow thickly.

“ _Es-tu sûr?_ ” Alexander asks, “I can add another–”

“ _Please_ ,” Lafayette whines, “I do not need another. Please, _s’il-te-plaît_ , Alexander, I need you in me _maintenant_ , _de grâce_.”

Needing no further prompting, Alexander is quick and efficient in coating himself in a generous amount of oil before positioning himself by Lafayette’s luscious rear. He presses the tip of himself in, and pauses to lean forward to capture Lafayette’s blissful whimper from his lips. He breaks the kiss just long enough to hear the loud, euphoric moan that is drawn from Lafayette’s throat as he fully enters him.

“You are so tight,” Alexander hisses, groaning as he buries himself to the hilt. In the numerous encounters he’s had with women, nothing has ever come close to the feeling of Lafayette around him. This, this is where he is meant to be. “So perfect, Gilbert, _tu es parfait._ ”

“ _A-Alexander..._ ” the Frenchman gasps, squeezing his hand, “ _Oh, Seigneur_...”

It takes all of Alexander’s self-restraint to keep himself from immediately setting a pace, awaiting Lafayette’s signal that he is comfortable. A bead of sweat rolls down his back.

“How does it feel, Gilbert?” he asks, his voice breaking.

Lafayette cracks his eyes open to look back at Alexander, his gaze lidded with lust. He smiles brilliantly. “It feels as though tomorrow I will be, how you say, sour?”

Alexander chuckles, pecking his lips. “ _Sore._ ”

“Not if you do not start moving, _mon chou_ ,” he teases, clenching around Alexander tantalizingly.

Alexander groans, and proceeds to firmly grip Lafayette’s other hip, smearing oil on it –he doubts either of them cares about it right now. He pulls out midway, and slides back in. Both men moan in unison. More confident now, Alexander repeats the movement, pulling back farther with each slow thrust, always managing to draw a shaky moan from the Frenchman.

“This is incredible, Gilbert,” Alexander breathes, setting a faster pace, “You are incredible.”

Whatever response Lafayette might have had, it is replaced by a loud moan as Alexander hits the bundle of nerves inside of him that sends liquid fire through his every fiber. In fact, the only words that are exchanged from that point on are ‘ _plus vite_ ’ and ‘ _plus fort_ ’, everything else drowned by the sounds of pleasure and the sinful slap of skin against skin.

Lafayette writhes and whines under him from the onslaught against his sweet spot, Alexander’s aim deadly accurate with each thrust. With one final keen, he clenches tight around Alexander and shudders to a finish.

Alexander’s second orgasm of the night hits him only a couple more thrusts later with such force, more than wave this time, closer to a hurricane, that his vision blackens for a few seconds.

When he blinks back into focus, he is sprawled, boneless, on top of an equally spent Lafayette, both men panting with exertion. Alexander carefully pulls back, and rolls to lay next to the Frenchman, a beatific smile plastered on his face.

He looks at Lafayette, whose smile, while more tamed, is still just as blissed. His eyes are half-lidded, a soft look in them. His skin glistens with sweat, his auburn hair sticking out from under his wig in multiple places, and Alexander has no doubts that he looks just as dishevelled as his companion.

His lover?

“That was... I have never...” Alexander tries weakly, his blood not quite back in place yet. “It was, um, satisfying.” He winces at his own ineloquence, wanting to relay how transcending this entire evening has been but unable to formulate the words.

Lafayette chuckles tiredly, shuffling forward to deposit a sweet kiss on the corner of Alexander’s lips and run his fingers through his hair. “I know, _mon petit lion_. For me as well.” He shifts, scrunching up his nose at the stickiness of his skin to the sheets, sighing as he drops an arm over Alexander’s waist, pulling himself closer.

“I believe I have discovered the only way to make you talk less,” he adds as an afterthought, his eyes fluttering back shut.

Alexander reaches out to brush a stray lock from Lafayette’s forehead, huffing. “Do you believe I should talk less?”

He can’t help but be reminded of all the people that have told him to be quiet throughout his life, to stop talking, to _talk less_. The most recent being Aaron Burr only a mere few hours earlier. Alexander can’t help talking so much, and he doesn’t want to stop. To be told to stop is akin to asking him to disappear, to return to his birthplace, to have his existence forgotten. Talking, writing, expressing his thoughts, it is the only reason he has survived so far. It is what makes him special, and it is what will make him rise up.

“‘Talk less’? _Jamais_.” Lafayette answers as he playfully tugs on a strand of hair, his tone both serious and fond. “Never talk less, _mon cher Alexandre_ , but do not forget to take your time.”

The fireflies buzz in Alexander’s stomach with renewed vigor, and are happily quelled by the kiss he then shares with Lafayette, this one more tender and loving than all the others they’ve shared this night.

“Perhaps you will show me how,” he teases, but nevertheless with a silent invitation.

Lafayette’s eyes gleam. “Perhaps I will.”

* * *

The next morning, Lafayette makes good on his word and together they enjoy the most scrumptious bread that Alexander has ever tasted. In retaliation for Lafayette grinning smugly at the look on Alexander’s face as he takes his first bite, Alexander snickers when Lafayette winces as they sit down at a table.

Arguably, Lafayette still wins this round as the wink he throws Alexander’s way serves to make the smaller man blush brightly.

Alexander Hamilton has never been one to believe in Fate, not with the way she has repeatedly attempted to crush him in her cruel hand. Everything he has accomplished so far, and everything he will accomplish in the future, he believes will be due to him and his convictions only, not Fate’s.

And yet, last night’s events, from finding Burr to being led to a casual tavern to coming across the Revolutionary Set to walking alone with Lafayette to finally discovering a feeling previously unknown to him, has sparked a sliver of belief in a painter of life other than himself.

Perhaps Fate has finally decided to give him an olive branch. If so, then Alexander might consider bestowing a piece of his forgiveness for the harshness of life she has continuously blown his way.

After all, who else could have placed Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette in his path?

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translations:  
>  bonsoir: good evening  
>  casse-toi: get (the hell) out  
>  ivres: drunk  
>  comment encore: how else  
>  regarde: look (verb)  
>  maître des baguettes: expert in baguettes (French bread)  
>  Absolument: Absolutely  
>  au service de l’Amérique: at America’s service  
>  ‘bravo’: congratulations  
>  prononciation: pronunciation  
>  quelques: a few  
>  autrement que par naissance: other than by birth  
>  appelle-moi Gilbert: Call me Gilbert  
>  curieux: curious  
>  Non non, mon ami: No no, my friend  
>  oui merci: yes thank you  
>  une comparaison personnelle: a personal comparison  
>  pierre précieuse: precious stone  
>  améthyste: amethyst (purple precious stone)  
>  resplendissante: resplendent  
>  Et aussi: And also  
>  fiancée: betrothed  
>  familièrement: with familiarity  
>  quelle tragédie: what a tragedy  
>  Mais dans la mort, ne trouvons-nous pas raison d’aimer plus hardement: But in death, do we not find reason to love more boldly?  
>  un immigrant: an immigrant  
>  réticence: reluctance  
>  ou que le cercle social dans lequel nous puissions avoir été élevés: or the social circle in which we may have been raised  
>  petite: little  
>  gémissements: moans  
>  Je ne souhaite pas être privé de ta beauté: I do not wish to be deprived of your beauty  
>  un aphrodisiaque: an aphrodisiac  
>  centimètre: centimeter  
>  mon chou: my sweet  
>  Bien sûr: Of course  
>  à cette langue élégante:  
>  Incroyablement bellissime: Incredibly beautiful  
>  Touche-moi: Touch me  
>  petite mort: little death (orgasm)  
>  sous l’emprise du désir: under lust’s thrall  
>  receveur: receiver (bottom)  
>  bel orateur que tu es: beautiful speaker that you are  
>  Laisse-toi aller pour moi: Let yourself go for me  
>  depuis que je t’ai apperçu pour la première fois: since I saw you for the first time  
>  au contraire des femmes: unlike women  
>  Oh bon Dieu– C’est très bien, oui, juste là: Oh good God¬– It’s very good, yes, right there  
>  C’est bon, tu peux: It’s alright, you can  
>  Es-tu sûr: Are you sure?  
>  S’il-te-plaît: please  
>  maintenant, de grâce: now, please  
>  tu es parfait: you are perfect  
>  Seigneur: Lord  
>  ‘plus vite’ ; ‘plus fort’: ‘faster’ ; ‘harder’  
>  mon petit lion: my little lion  
>  Jamais: Never  
>  mon cher Alexandre: my dear Alexander


	13. As I Live and Breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hi hi! I hope y'all had joyful and safe holidays! 
> 
> This chapter is a bit shorter than usual, I think. I don't really know, I lost track of everything, woohoo! :))
> 
> WARNING: hurt
> 
> Hope you enjoy, and if you want to check out a Hamilton dwell: https://discord.gg/bsjVpjz8Qb

* * *

_Previously:_

_As the doctor launches into the tale of his and his wife’s first meeting, Lafayette closes his eyes, his body exhausted while his mind remains attentive. The doctor’s revelations about his family, his home, make him all the more melancholic for his own military one. Yet, they also soothe him, knowing that not all humanity is beyond reach, that not all men from beyond the enemy line are soulless and evil._

_He doesn’t register when an extra apple is set beside him, nor the thin blanket that is draped over him, having been lulled to sleep by Doctor Brocklesby’s calming voice._

* * *

_Twenty-eight days after the battle_

Lafayette startles awake, blinking heavily as the door to his prison creaks open. His chest instantly constricts as he reflexively curls up tighter under the blanket that had mysteriously appeared on him a few days prior.

He wills his eyes to remain dry even as the panic quickly builds inside of him, scolding himself for letting the enemy get the better of him.

He refuses to be broken down.

Taking a deep breath, he discards the blanket and sits up, raising his head with a pride he does not feel just as the heavy footsteps reach him.

It is with expected dread that he sees Epaulettes and Long Coat, but with uncomfortable surprise the soldier he’s only gotten a glimpse of when he delivers Lafayette’s food and water. Why this soldier’s presence, Lafayette can only wonder.

Despite being unsettled by the change in routine, Lafayette forces a smile, as always. “Good morning.” Lord, how his voice sounds raspy, similar to a rusty pipe. “Has it been so long already?”

Without a word, Long Coat reaches forward and grabs him by the middle of the chain. Lafayette closes his eyes in anticipation, just barely refraining from whimpering. He braces his body for when it will be thrown against the wall again.

The lack of such action and the turn of a metal key makes him frown in confusion and open his eyes to peer down at his chain. He has but a mere second to be astonished as the lock connecting the two wrists bracelets is opened, his arms falling to his sides, before a boot connects with his back, shoving him none too gently to the ground on his stomach.

He softens the impact with his hands, letting out a breathless grunt as his cheek still scrapes on the cobblestone. The pain in his back fires to life anew, each three-day-old tear burning to the point of making him dizzy.

His arms are then grabbed without care and held behind him, his weak struggles against the hold in vain. There is another click of metal, and his hands are mobilized once more. He cracks an eye open just in time to see Long Coat bend down over him to bury his thick fingers in his already dirty and matted hair.

Pain erupts from his scalp as he is pulled up by his roots, and he hisses out a French curse for it. With his hands now bound behind his back, he has no way of alleviating the biting sting on his skull. He grapples with air to keep his balance in his semi-upright position, his injured calf smarting at the attempt at setting such abrupt weight upon it.

“Dare I assume you have had a change of heart regarding any of the subjects we’ve attempted to discuss with you, Major General?”

“I am afraid not, _crétin_ _,_ ” Lafayette sneers, glaring at Epaulettes with defiant eyes despite the fear that grips at him.

A small smirk grows on the British soldier’s face. “Very well.”

Still held by his hair, Lafayette quickly finds himself dragged forward and up the three steps leading out of his cell.

Confused but unwilling to let himself hope, he does not struggle again, taking in the details of the corridor down which he is led: There are more arrowslits along the colorless walls, from which he gains the briefest glimpse of green. Grass, perhaps. His cell would be in a basement level, then? There would not be any glass windows in a basement, after all.

His conjecture further solidifies as he spots another soldier walking up a set of longer stairs leading up to a closed door. But Lafayette is not led towards those stairs.

Instead, his captors take a sharp turn towards a doorless room. It is lit with torches, one on each of the four walls. A table stands bare on one side, and on the other a large wooden barrel.

Lafayette swallows thickly, dreading this unknown environment more than the usual beating and the recent whipping sessions.

He is marched towards the barrel, which reaches his waist in height and largely surpasses him in girth. Looking down at it, he notices that it is filled to the brim with what looks to be water.

“Do you swim, Major General?” Epaulettes asks in a casual tone which does nothing to reassure Lafayette.

When he doesn’t answer, Long Coat pulls at his hair sharply, earning another hiss from the Frenchman.

“ _Putain_ ,” Lafayette growls out, “ _Yes_ , I suppose I do.” He does not understand the relevance of this question, but there should be no harm in answering it.

“And when you learned,” Epaulettes continues, walking to stand in front of Lafayette, the barrel in between them, “have you ever experienced a near-drowning?”

The unease in Lafayette’s chest grows, and he glances down at the barrel.

Comprehension dawns on him, making his fear spike drastically. He looks back up at the British soldier, and his alarm must show in his eyes, for Epaulettes smirks once more before giving Long Coat a sharp nod.

The next thing he knows, Lafayette finds himself abruptly bent forward, an unfamiliar hand pushing down heavily between his shoulder blades. His head is helplessly submerged under freezing water.

Having had no time to hold his breath, water immediately rushes in through his nose and mouth from his gasp, making him choke. He struggles with what little strength he has left in his body, the terror and need to breathe fueling his uncoordinated flailing. His leg protests the heavy movements while his shoulder burns with the position it is forced into, one too strong for Lafayette to dislodge.

He is then pulled out, spluttering and coughing out water while simultaneously trying to breathe in much needed air. He almost does not hear Epaulettes’ question.

“Does France intend on forming an alliance with Washington’s army?”

Too shocked and breathless to even comprehend the question, Lafayette’s silence on the matter earns him a second immersion in the water, if perhaps shorter.

Still, it once again leaves him wheezing and trembling from the force of the terror filling his lungs alongside the water.

“Would you like to answer the question, now, Major General?” Epaulettes asks with a smile bordering on pity and amusement.

In between gasps, Lafayette manages to bravely glare at the man in response. He is rewarded by a tutting sound, followed by another dip in the barrel. Although he manages to hold his breath instead of inhaling this time, Long Coat in turn holds him under for a longer time, until Lafayette is forced to let water into his lungs again.

They burn from the freezing, liquid onslaught.

The process recommences over and over again, each time lasting longer as Lafayette continuously refuses to answer. His body fights and thrashes as best as it can, until his legs give up and he is only held up by Long Coat’s hand in his hair and the third soldier’s grip on his left shoulder.

Black spots begin to invade his vision the more time he is deprived of oxygen, forcing him to shut his eyes to disperse them. Still, they continue to dance behind his eyelids.

He wonders if they will eventually keep him under water until he actually drowns. It certainly feels like it, according to his weakening lungs.

Eventually, the bubbles floating to the surface become less frequent as his cries of panic fade into an airless scream.

He does not want to die. Not like this, drowned like a rat, surrounded by the most vicious men he’s ever encountered, far from his friends and allies who must think him long dead.

He does not want to die alone and terrified.

He prays to Providence to please spare him this cruelty, to please let him either survive this or let him die painlessly, to please make it stop.

_Par pitié–_

“Will you look at that, the French wench does beg, after all.”

Epaulettes’ taunt sets off a round of laughter around Lafayette, who then realizes through his hazy mind that he must have pleaded aloud. Were he not so frightened and feeling faint, he would certainly be mortified.

“But it seems you’ve forgotten what speaking your gibberish awards you.”

Another undistinguishable amount of time under water passes following Epaulettes’ threatening reminder, after which Lafayette’s ears begin to ring. Cracking his eyes open sluggishly, he realizes the edges of his vision are rapidly turning black to match the spots.

He feels detached from his body, as if drunk but most unpleasantly so. He blinks, his eyes burning, the world around him spinning, fading out, and blurring together under the unforgiving water.

Suddenly, his body collides with a harsh surface, the pain in his shoulder flaring enough to drag him back to awareness.

He twists to what may be his side, and heaves. Water mixed with bile rushes from his lungs up his esophagus and splashes out somewhere. Finally, he is able to take a deep breath, although it still sends him into a wet coughing fit.

He expels water twice more before slumping, his body shaking furiously with shock, the ringing in his ears having yet to subside. He attempts to hold his breath for whenever his captors decide to plunge him under again, taking quick breaths in between.

When nothing seems to happen for a certain time, he allows himself to breathe longer, which permits his mind to slowly come back to its senses.

His eyes flutter open. The cold air burns them, but he forces himself to take in the situation. He is back in his dark cell, it seems, sprawled on the ground. He does not know how long he has been back in his personal prison.

Had he fainted? How long had he been subjected to the terrifying sensation of drowning? It had felt like an eternity. He is still wet, he notices, although perhaps that stems from the water previously in his lungs.

He had nearly been drowned, over and over, and there had been nothing he could have done to stop it.

A wave of despair hits him straight in the heart, deep down into his soul.

 _He_ _will die here._

Never again will he see Washington, Alexander, John, Hercules. He will never witness the birth of this nation, nor walk upon the soil of his beloved France again. Never again will he feel the soft grass beneath his bare feet, the cold rain on his face, the warm wind through his hair, the fertile earth between his fingers. Never again will he run through the fallen autumn leaves, feel the winter snow melt on his tongue, smell the orange blossoms of spring, bask in the summer sunlight.

Never again will he feel Alexander’s lips pressed against his own. He will never know how it feels to surrender to Washington’s. Had there been more time, perhaps he could have had the courage to try, or to encourage his _Général_ to acknowledge their profound connection first.

Prior to his cold dismissal from camp, Lafayette had believed Washington would not push him away should he have tried. He had foolishly waited for the perfect moment, or for the other man to take that first step himself.

It had all been in vain.

Now, Lafayette will never be able to tell Washington how he’d stolen half his heart. He will never be able to tell Alexander how thankful he is for him to have treated the other half of it with such pure love.

He will never witness his two beloved find each other as well, if they ever do –he hopes his death hasn’t broken their bond. He wishes for them to find solace in each other’s affections, to allow their own unique bond to bloom and flourish into something beautiful and unprecedented.

Lafayette wishes he could have been a part of it, but Fate has, as it seems, forbidden it.

A humorless chuckle slips past his chapped lips. He had thought his romanticism years to be far behind him. But perhaps in his last streak of life, he can be allowed to muse more philosophical thoughts as he did years of past.

Slowly, he raises his left hand, idly noting that his shackles are back to being bound in front of him –he must have been truly senseless not to have registered the change–, and brushes a few strands of hair from his face. He becomes aware that his hair is still dripping wet, plastered to his scalp.

His ribbon must have finally ripped under Long Coat’s unforgiving grip.

Perhaps he is still dazed, but the thought of losing this small piece of dignity as well as the rest makes his eyes sting. Perhaps it is the one droplet too much that breaks the vase that is his mind, shattering the dam –the irony of the metaphor is not lost on him.

Regardless, it simply seems as though he can finally take no more of this.

The tears easily fall down his cheeks then, passing over the bridge of his nose to land on the cobblestone with a small wet sound. They feel pleasantly hot on his icy skin, and he wonders why he hasn’t shed them until now. But at this very moment, they won’t stop. He sheds them freely without attempting to restrict them. He doesn’t try to conceal the sobs that begin to wrack his frame either, curling onto himself.

If Washington could see him now; weak and broken. If Alexander could see him; pathetic and helpless.

There is no hope left for him. He can do nothing but hold his tongue until the day he is finally and mercifully put out of this misery.

“ _I may not live to see our glory..._ ” he croaks in a whisper, willingly sinking into the memory that seems so long ago, the smiling faces of Hercules, John, and Alexander greeting him with a raised glass.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translations:  
>  crétin: cretin  
>  Putain: Fuck (literally, a whore)  
>  Par pitié: Mercy


	14. The Animal in Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello! Happy New Year! I hope y'all stayed safe and still had fun!  
> To celebrate 2021, or the end of 2020, let's have a chapter that is completely unrelated to the beginning of this sentence :D
> 
> We've now nearly reached the bottom of the pit, which means the climb will soon start ;)  
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Check us out on Discord, at https://discord.gg/bsjVpjz8Qb

* * *

_Previously:_

_If Washington could see him now; weak and broken. If Alexander could see him; pathetic and helpless._

_There is no hope left for him. He can do nothing but hold his tongue until the day he is finally and mercifully put out of this misery._

_“I may not live to see our glory...” he croaks in a whisper, willingly sinking into the memory that seems so long ago, the smiling faces of Hercules, John, and Alexander greeting him with a raised glass._

* * *

_Thirty-five days after the battle_

It has become unbearably cold in his cell. Between the autumn draft and the fact that he never seems to dry, Lafayette has not stopped shivering no better than a crumping leaf since his first introduction to the barrel –whenever that may have been. Time has lost its meaning and therefore does not matter much to him anymore, not when the rusty handle of his prison door creaking down to alert him of his captors’ newest incoming torments could resonate at any given time, announcing the impending session underwater.

The inevitability of his fate terrifies him.

Indeed, the second time the three British soldiers had returned, Lafayette had fought with all his might despite his ever-weakening state, panic-stricken about being inflicted the same torturous treatment again. Naturally, it had been a futile fight, and it had earned him a bloody nose as well as a longer time under the water –not that he could have made the difference between one minute and one hour.

_“Useless French scum.”_

The third time they had returned, he had scrambled back into the farthest corner of the cellar, shouting nonsensically at his captors, and had been dragged by his hair to the other room. Trembling incessantly, he had still refused to answer the questions Epaulettes had asked him.

_“_ _This is_ _what you deserve for betraying the Crown_ _, Major General_ _.”_

The fourth time they had returned, he had shamefully curled into the tightest ball his body could make, sniffling from fright, hot tears running down his hollow cheeks. He had endured the laughter the sorry display had earned him without care, morbidly relishing the stalling effect of it. Still, he had begged as they had hauled him across the corridor, up until his pleas had been silenced by the freezing water.

_“_ _Just a pathetic_ _little_ _child_ _, aren’t you?”_

The fifth time, he had not made a sound, nor had made a single movement of protest. He had let himself be guided to the barrel, eyes empty, body shaking, only thrashing involuntarily when his body had demanded air and had been given none.

_“Only you can make it stop.”_

Epaulettes’ voice echoes in his mind, eerily louder than his own screams. Even delirious with terror, Lafayette still remembers that he cannot, in fact, make it stop, not without betraying everything he stands for. Although in truth, he begins to doubt if he even could utter words that are not pleas for mercy.

Back in his cell, Lafayette has yet to move from his curled position since he had crawled his way to the corner after being thrown back to the cold cobblestone half-unconscious and dripping wet following the latest near-drowning session.

How much time has passed since then, he cares not to venture a guess.

His back is pressed against the wall to keep an eye on the door if necessary, although he is drastically well aware that it will in no way change his fate. By now, chest has somewhat dried, but his hair remains damp while the thin blanket around his shoulders is uncomfortably wet from the water it has soaked.

He pinches it between trembling fingers, wondering once again whose suggestion it was to offer him such comfort –he leans towards it having been Brocklesby’s. He has indeed been thankful for the new addition of the blanket, however, no matter how ratty and thin it is. October must have properly settled in by now, and with it, the early preparations for winter.

He doubts he can survive the harshness of the next season in here, much less in his state.

Lafayette stares unblinkingly at the arrowslit’s blue shadow cast upon the floor. It must be night time. Which night, he does not know. He has not received a visit from Brocklesby –given that there are no new _physical_ injuries– since the man had treated his back. Curiously, even though the doctor serves on the enemy lines, his absence causes Lafayette to feel all the more alone in this Hell.

The small shred of humanity that had been granted to him has been taken away, leaving him with nothing but his solitude and despair and overwhelming fear.

Without warning, tears suddenly flood his eyes and promptly spill down his cheeks. He does not attempt to control the outburst, having had many alike since enduring the newest form of torture. Indeed, he finds the endeavor to stop it both draining and ultimately useless. He has already lost all of his dignity, and given that the chances of him dying here, alone, increase by the day, he does not find the purpose in forbidding himself this small action anymore.

As he lifts his hands to wipe away the hot tears, he realizes that the chain linking his restraints has not been reattached. Rather than thinking it a mistake, Lafayette concludes that his captors must simply not perceive him as a threat anymore.

The realization that they are not wrong in their assumption almost makes him laugh.

Instead, unsurprisingly, a sob tears itself from his throat and soon enough, they all pour out of him. It is almost a relief to let the effects of his torture manifest like this, as though he is emptying himself of the pain and fear. But in reality, both remain inside of him, burning and well-stoked.

Thus, when the sound of the lock sliding open echoes through the cellar again God knows how much time later, he flinches with a whimper, closing his eyes and burying his head in his arms protectively. He braces for rough hands to manhandle him across the floor for more torment. He barely hears the snickers over the sound of the blood pumping furiously in his ears, but the vibrations of the thick door slamming shut do penetrate his frayed senses.

A closed door means it is only a delivery of food and water. A closed door means he is not going anywhere. A closed door means he is staying put in his cell, and staying in his cell is good.

A closed door is safer.

Dimly, he realizes that his line of thinking is not quite right, but no one will hear it so it matters not if he has begun to find comfort in his private prison.

He considers moving to retrieve his meager nourishment, but that would mean getting closer to the door, and standing closer to the door would allow his captors to drag him out of his cell quicker.

So he remains motionless, opens his eyes and stares back at the arrowslit’s shadow.

He blinks slowly, and suddenly the light has turned light pink. It is not the first time this occurs; perhaps he faints, perhaps oblivion sneaks up on his exhaustion, but more and more often he finds himself feeling as though five seconds have passed rather than five hours. He whimpers as it means his captors’ next visit is now inevitably closer than it was before he ‘blinked’.

He listens to the drip of the morning dew as it slips from a height and lands outside of the arrowslit with a quiet ‘plop’. The more the light shifts towards a yellowing hue, the more his breathing turns shallow. Anytime now, they will either return, or he will be left alone for another rotation of the light.

The suspense nauseates him.

More tears gather in his eyes and slide down his face. He does not bother promising himself he shan’t beg for mercy, because he knows he might, whether voluntarily or not.

When the lock clicks open once more, Lafayette knows that this will be another session. He shuts his eyes tightly, shaking with renewed fervor, a pained sound escaping his throat. He cries out in fright as Long Coat’s morbidly familiar hands grip him by the neck and proceed to drag him out of his cell. The terrified Frenchman weakly kicks at the air as though out of remnant reflexes, while a quietly gasped series of ‘no’s tumbling out of his chapped lips.

The sight of the barrel alone is enough to steal the breath from his aching lungs and render him petrified.

But, unexpectedly, Lafayette is not shoved against the water receptacle. Instead, he is pushed into a wooden chair, his ankles then secured to its sturdy legs and his wrists tied to its arms with thick ropes before he can even think of fighting back –not that he believes it would actually make a difference.

Epaulettes towers in front of him while Long Coat stands looming on his left. On the table by the taller soldier lies a pair of thick leather gloves, and an odd-looking appliance. The object is thick and round, made of bronze from bottom to lid, standing on three curved legs. Attached under it is a small cylinder in which seems to burn a simmering flame. It looks to be a portable charcoal brazier, complete with long tongs on its side.

Lafayette is reminded of the ones that were in Versailles during the cold winter times, used to warm the bedrooms and occasionally, heat up large stones to be placed in the most lavish bathrooms to keep the temperature elevated without the smell of burning wood or charcoal.

“I imagine you are wondering what we have in store for you today, Major General,” Epaulettes begins, drawing the Frenchman’s attention onto himself. He looks entirely too smug for Lafayette’s liking. “There will be no need for you to find out if you simply answer my questions today.”

Lafayette shivers with dread, the brief consideration to submit the information passing through his mind before disappearing just as quickly.

“ _Casse-toi_ ,” he mutters, not meeting the British soldier’s eye and tensing even before receiving a sharp backhanded slap to the cheek. He scolds himself for letting his language slip out again, knowing what its usage earns him.

“What a shame,” Epaulettes tsks, his disappointment obviously forged. “We had considered letting you go shortly after your arrival, if only you had cooperated.”

Lafayette does not believe him in the slightest, but keeps his tongue in check this time.

“But seeing as it has become clear that you had no intention of doing so and any information you may still give us will soon be rendered too obsolete by time to use,” the British soldier continues casually, “We saw it fit to, at the very least as compensation for our hosting efforts, collect a handsome price for your pretty head.”

At that, Lafayette frowns. This cannot mean what he thinks –what he _hopes_ it means? The army has been informed he is alive? That would mean Washington knows as well–

Epaulettes sighs exaggeratedly, shaking his head in another show of mock-disappointment. “Alas, it would seem you are not worth what we believed you to be.”

The Frenchman’s stomach drops abruptly, all foolish hope turning to ash. He raises his eyes to meet the cruel ones watching him piercingly. “What do you say?” he whispers, unable to care for the way his voice wavers with fear, not when–

Epaulettes pulls out an envelope from his pocket, with what looks to be a crimson red Continental Army seal opened on its front. He steps forward to stand right in front of the Marquis, waving the paper lazily.

“According to the letter I’ve received last night, from the desk of General Washington himself,” he reaches out to brush a strand of hair back behind Lafayette’s ear, the disturbingly soft gesture making the Frenchman flinch back, “You are not worth recovering.”

Lafayette, whose body had tensed with a sudden flash of hope at the mention of Washington, crumples with shock. He instinctively shakes his head in vehement denial.

“You lie to me,” he hisses. “He would not–”

“Not what?” Epaulettes cuts him off. “Not dub you as a...” He leans back to pull the letter out of the envelope, his eyes roaming over its content before declaring: “‘Regrettable casualty’?”

Lafayette feels the sting of tears welling up in his eyes from the utter despair that threatens to choke him worse than the water ever has.

Could it truly be? Could he have been abandoned, after all he has gone through? After enduring all these tortures for the sake of loyalty? Was such loyalty misplaced, unreciprocated?

 _No_ , the letter must surely be fabricated. _It must be._

“Then why continue this?” he spits out, attempting to appear unaffected, but knowing that his voice gives him away.

At that, Long Coat emits what can only be an amused snort. Lafayette ignores it, keeping his weak glare on the officer in front of him. Epaulettes smiles slowly, the picture of malice sending a chill down the Frenchman’s spine.

“Your presence raises morale, you see,” he explains with a sadistic twist of his lips. “Tales of your pitiful displays serve to cheer the brave men who have lost comrades to your traitorous lot. Many in fact have even pointed to you as the direct culprit, and have therefore thoroughly enjoyed hearing your childish cries and screams, loud as they have been.”

Lafayette’s shaking only increases, his fists clenching where they are held against the wood. He lowers his head, unwilling to show how the knowledge of his humiliation being a source of entertainment to others, to his enemies, impacts him. Nevertheless, the shame burns deep within his very being.

“You are a man without his soul,” Lafayette grounds out.

Nothing happens for the next couple of seconds, until a hand suddenly fists in his hair and pulls his head back, forcing his tearful gaze to meet Epaulettes’ condescending one.

“I am not without mercy, Major General,” the British soldier whispers as one would to a frightened child. “The moment you finally decide to submit to your superiors and give us even a single piece of information, no matter how irrelevant it may now be, is when I will finally grant you a quick and painless death.”

Lafayette whimpers, both from the tight grip on his hair and the affirmation that he will either continue to suffer until he slowly dies from his injuries, or let his final act in this world be one of treason to the nation whose birth he had ardently wished to witness.

“Why?” he croaks out, voice tight with fear and despair.

Lafayette has never feared death before, not during his travel across the ocean towards a war not his own, not at the prospect of a fight, not when rushing into the battlefield, not even after he had been shot in the leg.

Perhaps he has been fearless throughout his life and accomplishments until now because he had known he would not have been alone. Furthermore, Lafayette would have been satisfied and proud to die for the sake of honor and country.

Now, however, he is terrified of dying, of Death touching him. He has been abandoned, left to die alone at the hands of barbaric men, humiliated and stripped of all dignity. He will not die holding Alexander’s hand, his hair tenderly brushed back by Washington’s fingers as he bids them farewell until next they meet, in Providence.

“Consider it a form of confession,” Epaulettes tells him haughtily. “A way to seek absolution for your disloyalty to the Crown.”

Before Lafayette can answer, his head is shoved forward, now free of the tight hold on his hair. He grunts, the soreness in his neck from being held down underwater smarting.

“Who may tell,” Epaulettes muses with a smirk. “Perhaps the Lord will judge your confession to be worthy of reprieve from Eternal Damnation, and you will be at peace when I have you put down like the mutt you are.”

Lafayette simply glares silently at the man, confirming what all in the room already know: he will not speak. Unsurprised to see Epaulettes’ smirk grow, the Frenchman’s heart doubles its speed as the British officer gestures for Long Coat to commence whatever it is they have planned for today.

Lafayette stares, still trembling but otherwise frozen in fear and apprehension, as Long Coat walks over to the table, adorns the gloves, and picks up the tongs, giving them an experimental snap. The sound makes Lafayette flinch.

Glancing back up at Epaulettes, he finds the British soldier watching him closely, seemingly desiring to catch every twitch of the Frenchman’s expression of trepidation.

Long Coat lifts the lid from the brazier, setting it down carefully next to it. He dips the tongs in, and pulls out a thin but long wire. It shines orange from the fiery heat it has been soaking into, its metallic reflection glinting in Lafayette’s widening eyes.

As Long Coat approaches him once more, Lafayette futilely presses back into the chair as much as he can, his arms and legs twitching with renewed fear-borne energy. The British soldier smirks, and holds the wire next to Lafayette’s right arm, the heat of it already too hot for comfort.

Terror seizes the Marquis as he realizes what exactly is about to happen unless he begins revealing secrets –secrets he could most likely not be able to recall as his mind screams with the urgent need to flee.

“Are you willing to confess yet, Major General?” Epaulettes teases him, and whether he refers to a confession of information or one of the soul, Lafayette does not care, his terror-filled eyes fixed on the wire.

“ _Non,_ ” Lafayette gasps out, also unknowing if he means to reject the proposal, or beg for mercy.

He is reminded of the time he was dared to immerse himself in the frozen lake near his home in Chavaniac, only a couple months following his tenth birthday. Even dipping his toes had caused an intense burning-like sensation to bite at his skin. Frost-bite, his grandmother had explained to him in a scold after he had returned successful but nearly iced from his adventure. He had been punished with a cold-stuffed nose for two weeks, and thus had not even been able to smell his beloved grandmother’s delicious remedy soup.

This time, however, there is no ice to block the smell of burnt flesh that accompanies his scream, adding to the nausea brought forth by the agony of having a burning metal wire pressed to his skin. He does not see Long Coat manipulate the wire into encircling his forearm, his eyes either shut tight or his eyesight invaded by black and white spots, but he feels it keenly. He does not hear the sizzling of his skin above the volume of his shattered wail, but he feels it acutely.

He does not catch sight of Long Coat pulling a second wire from the brazier, but he feels it intensely as it surrounds his other forearm.

Tears stream down his cheeks as his body is overtaken by tremors akin to a demonic possession. He thrashes uselessly in his hemp and metal bonds, chest heaving with cries and sobs and pleas for the pain to stop.

He does not know how long they leave the wires to seep into his abused skin, and perhaps he loses consciousness after some time, already weak from his previous inflictions and inhumane treatments, the meager amount of food and water, the lack of proper rest, and the overall fear that consumes him without respite.

When he finds himself capable of regaining focus, the wires have recovered their original grey color. They remain tightly wound up around his forearms, an angry red hue surrounding them, the skin there blistering sickeningly.

He chokes on a sob, the pain still very much present and tearing at him, continuously aggravated by every quiver of his body as the wires shift back and forth into the fresh wounds.

He is dimly aware of being alone in this room that causes him such torment, but he doesn’t particularly care, past the minuscule relief that nothing else might be done to him until further notice.

He sobs for the pain again, for the feeling of helplessness, for being so weak and afraid, for... for his initial interest in the Rebellion, for his decision to come to America, for the first time he adorned the Continental Army uniform, for the first time he ever laid eyes on Alexander Hamilton, for his desire to meet George Washington, for his blasted rank, for his foolish loyalty, for his accumulated failures that have led him here. He sobs for every decision he has ever been proud of making, and he sobs for his oath to remain silent in spite of everything.

When his captors –or perhaps they are simply faceless guards– come to return him to his cell, Lafayette has not yet finished shedding his tears, no matter how his throat aches and his eyes burn. If anything, the process of pulling the wires free from his skin only renews his despair as he feels the blisters tear afresh.

He is dragged back to the cellar like a lifeless doll, unresisting and unable to stand. Once dropped to the cobblestone, he does not move. He does not scurry to the farthest corner nor curl onto himself under the ratty blanket. This time, he simply remains motionless, the putrid smell of his mangled skin still in his nose and the words sent by Washington still echoing in his head.

_‘Regrettable casualty.’_

Who else thinks of him as such, apart for the man he had admired with utmost respect and zeal, the man he had come to love? Does Alexander, his heart’s fierce desire and devotion, the man he had loved upon first sight? Does John, the man he considers his brother in soul?

If they still live, do they think him so dispensable? Have they always?

Has he been made a fool by everyone?

Has he been manipulated without actual care for his person?

Has he always been regarded as inessential?

Could it be, that he was led– that he led himself into a false belief of belonging, of kinship, of love?

Has he always been so naive?

Lost in his own thoughts, addled by pain, Lafayette does not notice the light shift towards him, the arrowslit casting an orange hue upon him. He blinks blearily, and, with great effort, shifts his left arm forward. With the help of the sunset, he examines the damage, swallowing down the bile at the way the wires have painted gruesome stripes on his skin, wrapped three times around his forearm. It looks...

“ _Comme un tigre_...” He flinches as the words leave his lips without thinking, automatically tensing, expecting repercussions for speaking his mother tongue.

He cannot come to scold himself for his reaction anymore. Instead, a laugh bubbles up his throat, escaping in a distorted fashion. Then another, and another, until he is fully laughing, the sound hysterical, tears still tracing lines down his face.

Whereas he used to call Alexander his little lion, Lafayette can now be his piteous tiger.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translations:  
>  Casse-toi: Get [the f*ck] away  
>  Comme un tigre: Like a tiger


	15. Near and Far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI all! Today is Alexander Hamilton's Birthday!! What an old man, either 264 or 266 years old! Yeesh! BUT HIS MIND IS OLDER! ... Anyway, in honor of our dear immortal friend, here is a chapter, for which I must warn you: you may or may not feel your heart pulled. Let me know in the comments ;)
> 
> ****** As always, feel free to come check out the Chaos here: https://discord.gg/bsjVpjz8Qb ******
> 
> Hope you enjoy! <3 Happy Birthday, A.Ham!!!

* * *

_Previously:_

_Washington raises his first, “To Lafayette. An exemplary soldier, a trusted friend, the bravest man to grace our continent.”_

_Alexander bites his lower lip to stop it from wobbling. These brief, unrehearsed words from the General, uttered in the privacy of this room for himself and Alexander alone, tear more at his heart than the lengthy speech given for the all the fallen after the battle._

_“To the bonds he honored us with,” he whispers in turn, unable to hold Washington’s gaze as he attempts to once again will away the tears. He lowers his glass, and stares into the dark liquid, momentarily losing himself in his own wretched reflection._

_He is startled both by the sudden drop in his glass, the traitorous tear almost too quiet to hear as it mixes with the content of his drink. The large, warm hand on his knee prompts him to glance back up, finding Washington sitting much closer than before, looking at him with compassion and a matching sadness._

_“I miss him too, son.”_

* * *

George Washington has had many regrets throughout the course of both his private and military lives. His first command had led to a massacre, a fact which still haunts him to this day. He has made decisions that have proved to be fatal in this current war for their country’s freedom, and has lost more men than he can count. Arguably, he is currently letting his army and thus the people of America down.

Back home in Mount Vernon, his wife Martha awaits him, but he cannot guarantee his safe return, not when this war seems unending at best, and unwinnable at worst. He hopes she does not spend these worrying times alone, however. Certainly, while her children keep her good company, he still dearly wishes for her to find a companion to care for her in the way he cannot, ever could, nor probably ever will. At times, Washington regrets his inability to view her as no more than a close friend; a lifelong companion without a doubt, but unfortunately not as a wife.

To his mind’s relief, Martha shares his sentiment.

They had discussed the issue when he had suggested they marry; he had made it clear that he was more than willing to give her his name for her and her children’s sake, and had pressed that this union would hold her to no obligation to him. Martha, wise Martha, she had understood and had only been grateful for an alternative to the life of a widow, while Washington had felt content to offer this security to such an extraordinary woman at least. In addition to constant and such pleasant company, their marriage had also served to strengthen his social standing, confirming his aptitude to conform seemingly without a heavy secret to hide.

Martha, ever perceptive and caring, had questioned him shortly after their engagement on the subject of his own future, of the consequences of being wed ‘should the right person come along and capture your heart’. Washington had brushed off her well-received concerns, reassuring her that he lacked any expectancy for a true amorous union for himself.

It had taken him a couple hours to realize that his soon-to-be wife had chosen her words with suspicious care, combined with an all-too-knowing look upon hearing his answer.

Thus, they had agreed that should she or Washington find affection outside of their platonic marriage, then it would be at their discretion, so long as the children would not be affected by the newcomer.

Despite their _bonne entente_ on the subject, Washington continues to often wonder on the outcome of his life had he simply been able to love her as he loves–

Well.

George Washington’s penitence does not cease there.

Lafayette and Alexander are his most recent and most wretched regrets. He had let one boy die, and, by consequence, had torn the heart out of the other.

He had been unable to keep both his boys safe from harm.

He had repeatedly and desperately prayed for a miracle, for Lafayette to suddenly appear at the gate, a sheepish smile in place and an explanation for his absence, with a fantastical tale about his providential survival of the explosion.

But Washington had also thoroughly investigated his soldiers’ testimonies about that day following Laurens’ sullen declaration of his disbelief regarding the possibility of anyone so close to the incident surviving it.

With each repetition of similar statements from the soldiers who had witnessed the explosion, Washington had felt his hope decimate, his breath taken away as though he would receive a punch to the gut with each regretful shake of a soldier’s head. Or perhaps a stab to the heart, should Washington need to describe the feeling with more accuracy.

Thus, Washington had yielded to turning his prayers towards the hopes of Lafayette having been greeted by Death with mercy rather than suffering, as well as towards his grand welcome to Providence for eternal, well-deserved peace.

Washington had also begun to occasionally send a prayer to his brother, Lawrence, requesting he watch over the young Frenchman until he himself could do so once again.

That is, if the Pearly Gates will open for him after all his fatal failures.

Finally, during the nights most hard to sleep through, he had shifted his whispered prayers to Lafayette himself, murmuring his heartbroken apologies, often interrupted by his own choked emotions of despair and guilt.

For all his attempts at a virtuous and respectable life, Washington is under no illusion; he has failed. When victory for their nation seems at times unreachable, the weight of all his sins bears down upon him with a vengeance. The responsibility of the innumerable deaths of young men, the grief caused to their families, is his only to endure.

In the privacy of his own mind, he has sinned for his heart’s desires, for wishing such closeness to Alexander and Lafayette, for permitting it to happen against all moral warnings, for mourning what he had desired their intimacy to become.

At times, Washington finds himself regretting allowing these boys to make a home in his heart –or rather, allowing _himself_ to let them. He had always known it to be a risk to build such attachments, what with the situation they face on a daily basis, with his position, with Alexander’s occasional recklessness and brash streak, with Lafayette’s blinding loyalty.

And yet, he had grown fond of both, although perhaps ‘fond’ cannot describe what he had felt, what he still feels despite the death of one and the shattering of the other. He is certainly fond of John Laurens, of Benjamin Tallmadge, of Martha, of her children.

Regarding Alexander and Lafayette... Well, Washington had simply been helpless.

* * *

_Five months earlier_

“Do not tell Alexander he wears ink on his cheek.”

Washington opens his eyes blearily, and turns his head to the right to peer over at the Frenchman. Lafayette’s eyes remain closed, his posture entirely relaxed, gracefully sprawled in the luscious green grass in which they lay, his arms crossed behind his head to cushion himself against the base of a large tree stump where he and Washington have been reposing for the last hour or so. Lafayette sports a mischievous smile, illuminated by the bright spring sun.

From his own comfortable position next to the young Marquis, Washington hums. “I had not noticed it.”

“It is only just recent,” Lafayette clarifies, raising his right thumb for Washington to see. Its tip is colored a faded black. “Before our, how you say, outsing?”

Amused, Washington huffs. “Outing,” he corrects. “And why exactly should I not tell my chief of staff that he is unknowingly parading himself as a painting, dear Marquis?”

Lafayette’s smile broadens into a grin as he opens his eyes. He lowers his arms and turns on his side to face the General, his head now supported by one elbow. “I wish to see _l’expression_ at his– ah, _on_ his face when he discovers he has been working all _l’_ _après-midi_ like this.”

Failing to understand the purpose behind such a juvenile jest, Washington raises an eyebrow. “To what end?”

Lafayette merely shrugs with a carefree wink. “Our Alexander makes for quite a sight when he is fluttered– no, _flustered_. It is all is good fun.”

Washington chuckles heartedly, shaking his head in mock-disapproval, recalling the handful of times he has witnessed Hamilton in such a state. He cannot argue with Lafayette on the fact that the boy does make for a sight.

“One would think you might spend your time more wisely,” the older man nevertheless quips.

Lafayette plucks a few strands of grass and blows them over to Washington. They land on his hat which lies next to him. The Frenchman grins, both sheepish and unapologetic. “I am here with you. Is that not wise, _mon Général?_ ”

Brushing off the couple of strands that have landed over his waistcoat, Washington tilts his head in acknowledgment. “ _Touché_.”

Lafayette sits up quickly and gasps, startling Washington into doing the same as thoughts of _danger!_ grip at him, his hand already on his sword. Maybe there is an enemy nearby, maybe they are under attack, they must warn the camp, he must defend the Marquis–

“You have used French!” Lafayette exclaims, clapping his hands twice enthusiastically. “By yourself! Oh, I cannot wait to tell Alexander, and John! Martha must be told as well! She will be very proud–”

Washington scowls half-heartedly at the rambling Frenchman, willing his heart to slow back down now that he comprehends why Lafayette has bolted up so suddenly.

“Alright, alright,” he grumbles. “Are you quite done with your verbal capering?”

Lafayette stops midsentence, still grinning like the cat who has gotten the cream. He lies back down with a giggle, “You must understand, _mon talentueux Général_ , hearing you speak my language, it makes me happy.”

Washington sighs as he settles back down as well, keeping a wary but ultimately fond eye on the dramatic Frenchman. “Yet I have been told, by you no less than once, that my pronunciation is helpless.”

“Perhaps so,” Lafayette concedes, turning more serious while shifting his gaze to the blue sky. “However, what I most love is the effort a speaker does in trying. To succeed is of course very pleasant, but to me, trying _encore et encore_ even if it continues to fail, shows the most _force–_ ah, strength.”

Washington takes his time in looking at Lafayette’s contemplative expression as the other man stares up at the endless sky before following his lead while he ponders over an answer to such a sudden depth of thought. Lafayette’s ability to shift from a light-hearted conversation to a philosophical one in a single breath always manages to amaze and astound Washington.

A flock of returning birds fly over them, unhindered by the cloudless blue yonder, just like the two soldiers taking a well-needed break outside of their temporary camp.

“I suppose your vision has merit,” Washington eventually grants in a gentle tone, not for the first time taken by Lafayette’s odd yet engaging values.

“Alexander thinks so as well,” Lafayette adds proudly. “I have, I believe, never seen someone follow this vision, as you say, more arend– more adrendly– _ah misère! Avec plus d’ardeur_ than he.”

Washington chuckles at Lafayette’s butchering, earning himself another muttered curse in French, to which he laughs more heartedly. A glance at the Marquis tells him the Frenchman is not offended. In fact, he looks more elated than before, now openly staring at the General with something akin to fascination, waiting for his amusement to subside.

“You have a beautiful laugh, _mon Général_ ,” he tells him with open honesty. “I should wish to hear it more often.”

If anyone were to ask, Washington would deny feeling heat travel to his cheeks at Lafayette’s compliment and eager tone of voice. He clears his throat.

“Was I not a moment ago scolding you for your juvenile ways?” he says, attempting to veer away from the current subject.

It is Lafayette’s turn to laugh, and were Washington as candid as the Frenchman, he would also declare that his laugh is most melodious. In fact, there is a multitude of things he would endeavor to admit were he to speak plainly.

“Ah, but this only _prouve_ that you cannot hold me in your bad graces for long,” the Marquis teases. “Such power at my tips of fingers, whatever will I do with it?”

A voice inside Washington’s head tells him that Lafayette could ask him anything, could request anything of him, and he would oblige. This, however, he does not say. “You have already petitioned for my silence on the matter of Hamilton’s misfortune.”

“I am _honoré_ you agree to participate, however silently, to this jest,” Lafayette replies with a solemn tone that is contradicted by his amused smile. “But! I should like to make another request of you.”

“‘Participate’ is a strong word,” Washington counters. “Rather, I am turning a blind eye for the moment being.” It earns him a heart-warming giggle from the other man. “Nevertheless, what is it you should like to request?”

Lafayette’s smile suddenly turns shy, a tint of red appearing on his cheeks. The sight is most endearing, Washington cannot help but think. “I would like to, ah, to inquire on the ingredients that make your _eau de Cologne_ – that is, the scent you wear.”

Blinking from stupor and eventual comprehension, Washington resists the urge to lift his cravat to smell whether his cologne is perhaps too strong on this day. He does not think so, however. He wonders why Lafayette desires to know about his cologne.

“I suppose I may indulge your curiosity for such a small matter,” he responds as casually as he can, not failing to notice the way Lafayette perks up. “It is composed of a mix of differently seasoned citruses, bergamot, and a hint of rosemary.”

Lafayette seems to shine with joyful satisfaction, his eyes gleaming. “I am very grateful for the knowledge,” he says. “You see, I am often wondering what constructs the smell that pleases me so.”

Washington considers simply closing the subject with a hum of acknowledgment, but he cannot deny how his new-found awareness of Lafayette’s admiration of his carefully chosen cologne is flattering, in a most winsome way. Instead, he clears his throat to summon a grain of courage.

“If it pleases you so, Gilbert, then you may make use of it at your convenience.”

Lafayette’s eyes widen almost comically as he sits up abruptly once more, and perhaps for the first time since their first meeting, the Frenchman loses all sensical grasp on the English language:

“ _Mon Général, c’est si généreux–_ ” he gasps out, “That is, I am _flatté d’honneur–_ Ah, _non_ , you flatter me _avec cette offre–_ Oh, but _Sacrebleu, que vous m’affectez_...”

Washington watches the flustered Frenchman wordlessly as the younger man looks away to compose himself. A fond smile pulls at the General’s lips without his knowledge.

“Forgive me,” Lafayette eventually continues, more subdued as he looks down at the grass between them, but nevertheless with his cheeks most definitely bright red. “You have taken me with surprise, George.”

As always when Lafayette calls him by his given name, adding to it his French pronunciation, Washington feels his heart lighten. He had given permission for the Frenchman to address him as such privately a couple of months prior after sharing stories of their youths around a drink or two. Lafayette had been more than enthusiastic to try the name out, naturally offering one of his own numerous names in return. He had settled on Gilbert, struggling with the sounds at first.

Lafayette had stated that he would reserve the use of Washington’s name for special occasions, explaining that using it too carelessly would result in not only an accidental slip whilst in company, but possibly in the loss of its effect as well.

The latter, Washington had not quite understood the meaning of, but had nevertheless simply acquiesced.

“That is quite alright, dear Marquis,” he replies softly.

Lafayette meets his eyes again, now sparkling. It reminds Washington of the brightest of constellations. “Thank you. Your offer is most generous, as it touches my heart.”

Washington does hum this time, finding himself devoid of an answer in face of Lafayette’s profound declaration. French idioms translated into English often have that effect on him. Instead, he pats down the flattened grass to prompt the Marquis to lie back down.

They remain in companiable silence for awhile, as comfortable as this day permits them to be. Washington takes this time to wonder if this is what it will be like if they win the war: peaceful afternoons spent gazing up at the sky, recumbent on their land as it flourishes with its newfound freedom, basking in the warm breeze smelling of a prospering nation.

He longs for the green pastures of his estate in Mount Vernon. In this moment, it is easy to imagine himself there, under his favorite cherry blossom tree, revelling in the peace and quiet. Although, upon further inspection of his fantasy, he is no longer alone as he would previously daydreamed. Instead, he is pleasantly congregated by two bodies, one of each side of him. He is unable to discern their faces, as he is brought out of his revery by Lafayette’s soft exclamation of surprised delight.

Washington opens his eyes to look at the Frenchman questioningly. He sees the Marquis’ gaze now locked on a spot atop Washington’s right shoulder, and the Virginian idly wonders how long Lafayette has been looking at him.

With a boyish grin, the Marquis reaches forwards, brushing a hand on the General’s shoulder.

Washington has little to no time to wonder what the younger man is doing as bold fingers brush the skin above his cravat. He instantly becomes half-lost in the oddly pleasant sensation of having the Frenchman so close. But the warmth of the digits disappears too soon to properly examine the feeling.

Lafayette’s hand is now raised between the two of them.

“Look, _mon Général_ ,” Lafayette prompts excitedly. “A _coccinelle_ – ah, how is she named in English?”

Washington’s eyes drop to Lafayette’s index finger, where a small red ladybug is perched. He attempts to shake himself of the stupor he’s fallen into.

“Ladybug,” he informs him softly, finding himself observing the details of the Frenchman’s fingers; their slender shape, the well-maintained nails, the contrasting calluses a proud evidence of his hard work despite his aristocratic upbringing, and even the little white scar at the base of his middle finger.

“They bring luck, do you know?” Lafayette’s delighted voice brings him back to the insect at hand. “You may now make a _voeu_.”

Deciding to play along to the other man’s innocently charming ways, Washington shakes his head. “Ah, but I believe only whomever holds the ladybug may make a wish,” he declares with an air of formality. “Which in this case is you, Gilbert.”

“Ah, that will not do, _non non_ ,” Lafayette tuts, and, with his free hand, takes a hold of Washington’s. “Here.”

Lafayette unabashedly links his ladybug-occupied hand with Washington’s, fingers folded and intertwined as one would during a marriage ceremony. Perhaps the meaning is lost on the Frenchman, as their cultures vary in many other ways as well. Regardless, it is both difficult and worryingly easy for Washington not to react to the gesture.

Together they await in silence for the ladybug to make its way from Lafayette to Washington. The General both curses and blesses the insect for moving at a leisurely pace.

When finally, it has reached one of Washington’s knuckles, Lafayette makes a small sound of victory, giving the General’s hand a quick squeeze before releasing him. Washington instantly misses the warmth.

“Now you may make the wish,” Lafayette whispers, regarding him with both an intensity one might make use of for overt seduction, and a softness reserved for a beloved companion.

_Perhaps I have no need for a wish_ , Washington thinks as he feels himself to be the most content he’s been since the war started, but still he gently blows a breath at the ladybug without breaking eye contact with the delighted Marquis, prompting the small insect to fly away.

Lafayette watches it fly away, his joy unbridled.

_Although perhaps I shall wish for you and Alexander to one day visit my home._

* * *

_Thirty-seven days after the battle_

“I believe I told you to take a break, Hamilton.”

Alexander looks up from the politely scathing letter he is writing to Congress to see Washington watching him calmly from the top of the stairs. This is the first house they have had the good fortune to be let in since Lancaster –one that is built with an upper level, no less.

Needless to say, the Isaac Potts House is more than satisfactory, particularly as the colder winds begin to blow through their coats.

They had settled at York briefly, and then back East towards Reading, until they’d reached Germantown, where another confrontation against General Howe’ Army had awaited them. Alexander had not been allowed to fight on the battlefield, despite his loud protests. John, however, had managed to be given a reason to leave Washington’s side, and had been wounded in the process.

Their defeat had been yet another stripe that darkened the Continental Army’s morale, and Alexander had not left John’s side in the medical tent until the freckled soldier had been released with the assurance that he would recover.

Alexander had been –and still somewhat remains– furious with John and his stunts of _bravoure_.

Valley Forge had been rumored to be their final destination, where it had seemed the troops would remain until further notice, supposedly all throughout the winter.

There had been whispers of Washington’s exhaustion due to Lafayette’s death, thus their earlier-than-planned settlement at the site. But Alexander is not one to pay any heed to such gossip, not when such a subject inspires weakness in the General and heartache in himself.

“Yessir,” Alexander answers airily. “Just five more minutes and I will be done.”

Washington raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “You have said as much fifty-five minutes ago.”

Alexander blinks, glances at the watch on the table, and looks back at the General sheepishly. “I... may have lost track of time, Sir.”

Washington huffs, close to rolling his eyes if he weren’t more dignified. He walks down the stairs, the wood creaking under his boots. “Come. Have a walk with me.”

“But Sir–” the younger man attempts to protest, only to be silenced by a stern look. “Yessir. Coming, Sir.”

Alexander caps his quill carefully, and shoves his draft unceremoniously into his pocket. He has no doubt he’ll have to reconfigure his wording, lest he get scolded by Washington for his impudence –even though Alexander knows very well how the General shares his opinion on the matter of Congress.

He pushes his chair back and stands too quickly, his head spinning for a couple seconds. It incites a yawn.

He is tired, and the day has been a long and strenuous one. The weather has been lifeless throughout sunlight, the autumn wind having only picked up gently as the sun had set. John had retired to their tent close to two hours prior. Alexander is willing to bet against himself that he might join him soon enough for a couple hours of rest.

He dons his coat, foregoing the gloves –as opposed to Washington, he notices. Washington holds the front door open for him, and together they begin walking through the camp. At this time, with this weather, not many soldiers linger outside. Those who do attempt to give Washington a proper salute, but the General waves them off.

It is not to be a formal walk, then.

Thus, Alexander begins talking rapidly, waving his hands through the air in frustration as he relays the content of his latest letter to Congress in response to the slender being distributed by General Conway in regards to Washington. Furthermore, he expresses his displeasure at being made to remain diplomatic when he believes bold strokes of his quill would have more advantageous effects.

Washington listens to him, humming and nodding when appropriate, but Alexander is able to notice his distracted stance. He comes to the conclusion that tonight’s discussion will not revolve around war and politics.

It is to be a personal walk, then.

Nevertheless, until the General deems it time to broach whichever subject occupies his mind, Alexander will continue to make his case.

As they arrive to the South gate near half an hour later, Washington asks him if he minds a nightly excursion. Alexander raises his eyebrows curiously, but readily gestures for the General to lead the way.

The guards, of course, do not question their motives as they exit the camp.

Alexander draws his coat closer to himself as the wind hits with slightly more force without the housings to keep it at bay. He falls silent as they begin climbing along a nearby hillock, the trees around them either bare or still losing their foliage. The grass beneath their boots is still wet from the earlier rain, prompting them to walk slowly as not to slip.

Washington eventually stops at the top, Alexander following suit. The General’s cloak ripples grandly with the wind, giving the man a majestic appeal. It is not the first time Alexander has privately compared him to a king.

The man could be a king, should he win this war. He could rule over the nation with an iron yet generous fist, should he wish to. But Alexander knows Washington desires no crown, a fact which only serves to further strengthen the aide-de-camp’s quiet admiration of him.

They stand side-by-side in silence for a handful of minutes, simply taking in the peace and quiet of the night, a luxury neither of them is often afforded nowadays. The flickering lights of campfires are visible from their standpoint, a sight that has a calming effect on Alexander’s ever-frayed nerves, and, he wonders, possibly on Washington’s as well.

“Look up, Alexander,” Washington suddenly says softly.

Alexander does so without question, nearly giving himself whiplash in his quick obedience. His rapidity allows him to catch the end trail of a shooting star as it disappears back into the night sky.

His jaw clenches as the thought of Lafayette immediately manifests in his mind, his wondrous grin of child-like awe just as stunning in memory than it had been in life. Had Lafayette been here, with them, _alive_ , he would have told Alexander to–

“Make a wish,” Washington eerily voices his aide-de-camp’s very thought, causing the younger man to flinch.

“I would not have believed you to place any value upon such practice, Sir,” Alexander comments instead, keeping his gaze firmly on the other unmoving but nevertheless beautifully gleaming stars.

Washington breathes out an amused sound. “Indeed, I do not place much value in a falling star’s efficiency in granting any favors,” he answers slowly, his voice sounding just as distracted as the rest of him. “However, one should learn to recognize the value in such a ritual by its effects on the believer.”

Alexander briefly glances back at his commander, taken aback by the quiet wisdom freely offered. He voices no rebuttal, mind unsurprisingly attempting to wander back to his departed lover, how he would have certainly approved of Washington’s advice.

He forces the thoughts away, unwilling to dwell on his grief this night.

As the subject seems to have come to an end, he is once again able to fend off the cold threatening to invade his heart. That is, until Washington speaks anew.

“Did my closeness to Lafayette bother you, Alexander?”

The sudden drop of Lafayette’s name automatically makes Alexander’s heart seize, the cold breaking past his fragile barriers with renewed vigor. He scolds himself for the reaction, knowing it only pains him more to react as such. He focuses on the question Washington has asked him, and the strange aspect of it.

“Why would it have, Your Excellency?” Alexander asks genuinely, while willing his eyes to remain dry.

Yes, Alexander had always thought of Lafayette’s unique intimacy with Washington to be curious. Interesting, certainly. A source of envy, in some way at times. But never a bother. Lafayette’s admiration for the General had been well-known, and the reciprocity of it would make his dearest friend so joyous. How could Alexander have resented him that? He had had the Marquis’ love as well, and he had never been left wanting or feeling discarded.

Lafayette had needed Washington’s affections, and Alexander would have done everything in his power to procure them for him if needed be. Had Lafayette asked him for the moon, he would have gladly gone to retrieve it. But the sweet Frenchman had only asked for his friendship –his and John’s and Hercules’–, for his love, and for his _Général_ ’s close familiarity.

Loving Lafayette could not have been helped, no matter with which level of intimacy. So no, Alexander could not fault Washington’s own love for the Frenchman, however ambiguous it may have been, or seemed to have been.

Washington does not respond immediately, seemingly trying to communicate his answer through his eyes. To Alexander, it almost appears as though the General is aware of something Alexander is not, as though he is inviting his chief of staff to speak truthfully.

The only truth that remains unspoken is the true nature of Alexander and Lafayette’s relationship, and that is a secret that Alexander is willing to take to his grave, just as Lafayette has.

The hairs on the back of Alexander’s neck suddenly stand, and not because of the cold.

Is it possible that Washington _knows?_

He recalls the last time he had wondered so, before the battle. No, he couldn’t... Alexander forcibly dismisses the idea, justifying the past minute as a superior officer assuring himself of any possible impression he might have given of rank disparity.

“I allowed him many liberties, some of which you have witnessed on one occasion,” Washington starts then, almost startling Alexander, his eyes glazing over just the slightest in what must be reminiscence. “I only recently begun to wonder whether you deemed such... tactile exchanges to have been inappropriate, or distasteful.”

Alexander’s eyebrows jump to his hairline. He wants to laugh at the irony of it all. If only Washington knew exactly how _inappropriate_ he and Lafayette had been with each other in the privacy of the night.

However, he thinks of a similar situation; had they been a man and a woman, perhaps publicly engaged to be wed, and one of them would be taking part in the activities as Lafayette did with the General.

Indeed, in such a scenario, the left-out party might take offense.

But that is neither here nor there, in the end. No one but John had known about the two immigrants’ affections for each other. They had been careful. And Alexander would never have denied Lafayette what had so clearly brought him joy.

In truth, however, there had been the occasional instance when he had felt a tinge of envy, and, much to his confusion and simmering shame, had had a passing thought of desire to join them –to be as privy to Washington’s attention as Lafayette had been.

“I did not, Sir,” Alexander answers truthfully. “Lafayette is– was well-known for his unconventional approaches.” He clears his throat of his mistake, then swallows thickly.

“He would never let societal norms dictate his capacity to help or demonstrate his respect,” he continues. “For some, it was by _la bise française_. For others,” he looks meaningfully at the General, “it was by the affectionate touches and doting endearments.”

Washington sighs, sounding both relieved and nostalgic. Silence befalls them once more for a moment, until the General’s lips quirk up. 

“I have never asked Lafayette about the French epithets he would use with me,” Washington says softly, his voice fond. “I did not mind them, and my cluelessness seemed to amuse him. I could not for the sake of me remember most of them, much less the full sentences he would occasionally bestow upon my French-deaf ears. However, if you could enlighten me on one sobriquet I do somewhat recall?”

Alexander is torn between laughing in remembrance of Lafayette’s audacious and shameless bynames, or screaming with grief at the harsh reminded that he will never hear his voice again.

“Of course, Your Excellency,” he says instead, throat tight.

Washington’s jaw shifts, silently testing the pronunciation, brow furrowed in preparation to botch the language. “What does ‘mon cur parcyel’ mean?”

Alexander frowns, confused at first by the term, before realizing that Washington simply mispronounced the words.

“Do you mean ‘ _mon coeur partiel_ ’, Sir?” He almost laughs, the endearment typically something no one but Lafayette would dare say to the Commander in Chief of the Continental Army.

Something flickers in Washington’s eyes at Alexander’s flawless French. He nods. “Yes, that would be the one. Lafayette spoke it when...” he trails off.

Had they been indoors, the air would have become heavier with tension.

“When what, Sir?” Alexander asks tentatively, carefully.

A strong gush of wind blows a few strands from his queue, and sends a scattered pile of dead leaves flying around them. It serves to fill the pregnant pause between them.

“The night before he left with John– with General Sullivan, that is when he used it,” the General explains quietly, sounding much older than his age in that moment. “Lafayette promised me he would return. It was... Never before had he broken an oath.”

Alexander swallows with difficulty, his breath catching. More than the lack of sleep, the fluctuations between numbness and grief is the most exhausting factor of Alexander’s state of being. Right now, his knees nearly buckle under the weight of loss, nearly makes him physically sick to his stomach. He wishes to scream, to clutch at his aching heart to keep it from shattering again as though he’s back on the battlefield, witnessing Lafayette’s death.

Perhaps he makes a sound of distress, or his body visibly slumps, or his accursed eyes once again express too much, for his hand is gently taken by Washington’s gloved one. The gesture surprisingly grounds him, the heat present even through the piece of clothing.

They remain silent for a few minutes, allowing both men to calm their warring emotions.

“‘Half of my heart’,” Alexander eventually blurts out without thinking it through, immediately blushing as he realizes the way he’s spoken. “’ _Mon coeur partiel_ ’, that’s what it means. ‘Half of my heart’.”

He chances a glance at Washington, only to find the man staring back at Alexander, eyes alight with something he cannot name. They both look away at the same time, Washington gazing back up at the night sky while Alexander looks down the camp.

“Do you believe he meant anything by it?”

Washington’s question takes him by surprise. “Sir?”

But the General shakes his head, seemingly changing his mind. “It is of no import,” he dismisses with an airy chuckle. “Just the weary thoughts of a worn man. Shall we head back?”

Washington lets go of his hand.

Alexander nods automatically, but his mind replays the question, the tone with which Washington had asked it. He had seemed genuinely curious, melancholic, and, most intriguingly: wistful.

Alexander thinks back on Lafayette’s regard for the General, how deep the Frenchman’s affections for Washington ran, and if there had been an element missing to Alexander’s knowledge of the subject.

Lafayette had talked about the General with reverence even before meeting him in person for the first time, claiming to have read everything available on the man while sill living in France. After their arranged introduction, Lafayette’s adoration had only expended, and had continued to grow with each passing day.

It had never occurred to Alexander at first that perhaps Lafayette had had deeper feelings for Washington than simple hero worship. He had pondered upon it only after stumbling on their evening ritual weeks into working as an aide-de-camp alongside John and Lafayette. The way Lafayette had later explained the going-ons and purposes of these types of evening in great and excited detail had given Alexander an inkling as to Lafayette’s more private thoughts about the General.

Still, Lafayette had never stopped declaring his love for Alexander since the night they met, while also jesting about his infatuation with Washington.

He had wondered about the probabilities of Lafayette capable of expressing his love for two people simultaneously, whole-heartedly, and equally. Judging from his own perspective of his intimate familiarity with the Frenchman, Alexander had concluded these probabilities to indeed be high.

He had also briefly wondered why the hypothetical idea of Lafayette one day declaring that he was in fact also in love with Washington without jest had not bothered him then, and would still have not bothered him now, had Lafayette still been... Well.

More presently, Alexander finds himself questioning the General’s opinions on the matter of Lafayette’s ambiguous affections. He remembers warning the Frenchman about Washington’s lack of appreciation for casual touch before their first meeting, knowing how Lafayette would surely resort to _la bise française_ if not told otherwise –especially considering the Marquis’ respect for the man he had been so eager to meet.

Yet, Alexander had found himself shocked by Washington’s response that day, and more so after by his continuous acceptance of Lafayette’s displays of admiration.

The night Alexander had stumbled upon one of their ‘rituals’, he had believed, for the briefest of seconds, that the General and Lafayette had been engaging in a kiss.

Oddly enough, Alexander had not felt the jealousy rise within him, only stupefaction, and a curiosity upon which he had not been willing to dwell. Besides, Lafayette had simply been kissing Washington goodnight on his cheek, if perhaps too close to the corner of the man’s lips.

Now, however, Alexander permits himself to revisit that relationship as it may help elucidate the nature of Washington’s thoughts on the matter, as well as his own.

Had Washington had a precise intention behind these rituals other than the platonic relief of the pressures of command? It seems almost unseemly to think so, and yet Alexander cannot help but let his mind wander and wonder.

“Sir–” he begins without a continuation planned, his perceptions and notions on the subject grappling to either be voiced or kept quiet for further examination.

_What would he have thought if he had witnessed Washington and Lafayette share a kiss?_

The morally forbidden yet surprisingly sinfully beautiful imagery serves to send an unexpected wave of heat through Alexander, causing him to lose focus on his careful steps down the hill and slip with a silent gasp.

He mentally curses and laments the inevitability of a stained uniform and the embarrassment this fall will cause him.

Instead of hitting the ground and being made to endure both outcomes however, Alexander finds his bicep grasped in a tight hold and his body pulled back upright, a muttered _‘Easy now’_ breaking the silence of the accident. The force of the upward pull nearly sends him crashing into Washington, but he manages to stabilize himself in time to prevent propelling them into a matching state of sullied uniforms.

Alexander looks up after ensuring both his feet are once again firmly planted on the ground, only to have his breath catch in his throat at the physical proximity he shares with the other man.

They are close, far too close for it to be appropriate. Only a breath away, Washington’s hand still around Alexander’s bicep, their chests brushing, eyes locked in a conflicted gaze; Alexander’s is stupefied, awed, curious. Washington’s is calm, fond, warm. Both reach the state of wistfulness simultaneously, yet it is Alexander’s that flickers down to the General’s lips.

The spark of desire that appears in the younger man is immediately drowned out by the bombora of guilt, causing Alexander to lean back sharply, prompting Washington to release his arm.

A wave of cold invades him, starting from his bicep all the way into his heart once more.

Washington too seems to come back to his senses, although with more grace as he leans back slowly and breathes out quietly.

Alexander’s heart is beating madly, his stomach churning nauseatingly from the thought that had crossed his mind.

_What would it feel to kiss him?_

He clears his throat, patting down his uniform in faux-inspection. Neither man comments upon the nameless occurrence, and Alexander is relieved for it. Had he truly allowed himself to wonder upon the taste of Washington’s lips? Is he so heartless as to be capable of setting aside Lafayette, his lover, dead because of his incompetence, in lieu of whatever inexplicable desire had taken over him?

And yet, perhaps the term ‘in lieu’ does not stand correctly for what Alexander had unwillingly envisioned; rather, his mind had been colored with the image of Lafayette alongside him and Washington. Or Washington alongside him and Lafayette. Or him alongside Lafayette and Washington.

_The three of them, together, unified, hearts beating as one–_

“Do you believe you will sleep tonight?”

Alexander startles out of his thoughts, realizing they’ve walked back to the camp’s entrance. He mentally shakes himself out of whatever stupor the lack of sleep had surely been responsible for dragging him into.

“I believe so, Sir,” he responds with an uneven voice.

“That is good to hear,” Washington offers softly, a small smile on his lips. “Good night, Alexander.”

Alexander knows Washington will now make his final rounds before heading abed as well. He finds himself relieved not to be asked to accompany him, not after such an... odd moment.

“Good night, Your Excellency,” Alexander bids back, turning on his heels and making it only a few steps in the direction of his tent before he stops on impulse.

He turns back around, so many words battling to be formed on his tongue, yet none that can be spoken so openly. Washington too has yet to move, watching him questioningly.

“I think he meant it as literally as he could, Sir,” Alexander tells him at last, his voice strained with emotion. “Lafayette rarely spoke words he did not intend to be taken as such.”

With that, he heads back to his tent, missing the regretful sigh that escapes Washington’s lips.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translations:  
>  l’expression: the expression  
>  l’après-midi: the afternoon  
>  Touché: Point made   
>  mon talentueux Général: my talented General  
>  encore et encore: again and again  
>  force: strength  
>  ah misère! Avec plus d’ardeur: ah misery [damnit]! More ardently  
>  prouve: proves  
>  honoré: honored  
>  eau de Cologne: cologne  
>  Mon Général, c’est si généreux– That is, I am flatté d’honneur– Ah, non, you flatter me avec cette offre– Oh, but Sacrebleu, que vous m’affectez...: My General, this is so generous– That is, I am flattered with honor– Ah, no, you flatter me with this offer– Oh but damnit, how you affect me...  
>  coccinelle: ladybug  
>  voeu: wish  
>  la bise française: the French kiss on the cheek (casual greeting)


	16. Heart of Coal, Mind of Glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellohellohello!!
> 
> Today is a good day!! Although I do apologize for the lateness, I had a real hard time editing this chapter.  
> THUS my Beloved Love @clear_as_starlight blessedly looked it over and corrected it with their magic brain and incredible pen! Thank you, mon pain au miel!! <3 <3 <3
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter -- Beware: change is coming~ ;)
> 
> ***Warning: Suicidal Ideation***

* * *

_Previously:_

_With the help of the sunset, he examines the damage, swallowing down the bile at the way the wires have painted gruesome stripes on his skin, wrapped three times around his forearm. It looks..._

_“Comme un tigre...” He flinches as the words leave his lips without thinking, automatically tensing, expecting repercussions for speaking his mother tongue._

_He cannot come to scold himself for his reaction anymore. Instead, a laugh bubbles up his throat, escaping in a distorted fashion. Then another, and another, until he is fully laughing, the sound hysterical, tears still tracing lines down his face._

_Whereas he used to call Alexander his little lion, Lafayette can now be his piteous tiger._

* * *

_Thirty-nine days after the battle_

Eighteen lines. Nine on each arm. Both forearms are sketched with eight parallel marks starting from the elbow and ending at the wrist, with the final line crossed vertically across the horizontal lines, all the way to the knuckle. It is almost artistic, as though Lafayette is a canvas and his torturer the artist with a burning, lethal paintbrush.

Eighteen lines in the span of three sessions. After each one, it takes him longer to manage to push himself up to his aching legs. Limping towards the door to eat what he is granted and drink half of the cup of water proves to be more of a chore than a relief. Furthermore, his throat protests the voluntary spilling of the other half of his ration of water on his arms to clean the grime from his freshly wounded skin.

It burns cruelly, but it serves its purpose, if only minimally. Given that there has yet to be any sign of Doctor Brocklesby since the last lashes were inflicted upon him, Lafayette has deduced that he will either be left to suffer through the barest gush of wind on his wounds for some indefinite period of time, or be left to die from infection altogether. Therefore, he attempts what he can to fend it off.

He would rather die from the cold and exhaustion than from a feverish and undignified infection.

It is either a miracle or a curse that his arms have yet to be infected, or any other part of him for that matter. Lafayette is not a religious man by any means, but he is beginning to truly wonder if he is being punished by some Divine power; for how much longer must his suffering be prolonged?

He also begins to wonder whether it is more foolish than brave to continue this fight for survival. While he remains stubbornly unwilling to spare any kind of information to the enemy in exchange for mercy, there must surely be other ways to spare himself further misery? He could cease to eat and drink until his body shuts down. He could slam his head repeatedly against the wall until he bleeds out. 

He could impale himself on the hook and choke on his own blood.

The thought of his own death nauseates him, but not because he fears it. Instead, the thought of his own death calls to him with such crescendoing cadence that it despairs him. It sings with the promise of deliverance from this inhumane captivity, from his pain, his heartache, his humiliation.

But the thought ultimately sings to ears deafened by cowardice; not only does he not believe himself physically strong enough to harm himself in that manner, or brave enough to let Death slowly dig its claws into him in such a context, but the fact that he would consider this act of desperation makes him both ashamed and terrified.

What would Alexander and George think of him now?

Lafayette is abruptly brought out of his morbid thoughts soon after by the sound of the door opening. He flinches violently, curling impossibly closer into his corner, breathing already becoming frantic and tears already starting to spill from his eyes. He could have sworn they had only just finished burning the last six lines into his arms recently, the pain still fresh and the smell of burnt skin still poignant.

As he feels the footsteps grow nearer and stop behind him, he cannot hold back the whimper that escapes him, nor the small cry that jumps out of his raw throat as a hand sets on his shoulder. He grips the thin blanket tightly, shivering madly under it.

Any moment now, any second, he will be pulled up and dragged away by his hair. He has yet to figure out how his scalp has not been ripped off from such abusive treatment. As it stands, he _has_ noticed certain patches of his hair have gone missing. He feels the uneven volume of his matted hair every time he curls into himself with his trembling fingers cradling his aching skull. Should he ever bathe again, the difference between his once soft, well-cared for auburn chevelure and his current unkempt, dirty head of felted hair would be most apparent.

But what does his vanity matter when he is about to be subjugated to acts that repeatedly prove the existence of Man’s capacity for absolute lack of moral restraint?

“Mr. Lafayette?”

Lafayette flinches once again, and stills completely in confusion, breath held in apprehension; there is no laughter, no demeaning slurs, no pulling, no dragging, and no jovial announcement to ready himself for another supposed-interrogation.

Thus, it takes Lafayette a moment to give the lack of action meaning and the voice a name, disoriented as he is by the blood pumping furiously in his ears with terror. Without moving an inch from his foetal position, he finds himself croaking out a hopeful word between rapid breaths.

“ _Docteur?_ ” He receives a blessedly familiar hum of acknowledgment, causing the frightened Marquis to breathe out a dry sob of relief. “You are here.”

If Brocklesby hears the anguish in his voice, he does not comment upon it.

“Will you sit up for me, Mr. Lafayette?” Even as he asks, Brocklesby slides a hand under Lafayette’s shoulder, prompting him up. Lafayette groans weakly, but stiffly manages to prop himself against the corner wall, keeping the blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

“I believe– I did not believe to see you again, _Doc–_ Doctor,” he whispers as he opens his eyes, forcing his tone to be light. He glances nervously at the lantern Brocklesby has set next to them, its flame bright and flickering threateningly.

Catching his gaze briefly, Brocklesby inclines his head in silent understanding, though it is unclear whether this understanding be of Lafayette’s belief in his inevitable lonely death, or of the remission the doctor provides him. He carefully takes a hold of Lafayette’s left arm to examine it.

“You seem to have done well enough on your own, given so,” the older man states in regards to the relative clean state of his blistered skin.

Lafayette does not have the energy to conjure a laugh at the doctor’s attempt at levity, resulting in a strangled sound leaving his throat in response. Brocklesby glances up at him with analytical eyes before setting his arm down and reaching to the side for the familiar aluminium cup. He then fishes out a canteen, and fills up the cup to the brim before handing it to Lafayette.

“Am I correct in assuming you have been sparing your water rations for this purpose?” Receiving a nod from his patient, he nods back in approval. “Do drink up then, you are most likely dehydrated.”

Lafayette resists the urge to snap that dehydration is the least of his problems, instead lifting the cup to his chapped lips and drinking avidly from it. In the meantime, Brocklesby begins pulling his usual tools from his bag, as well as an apple, and an unfamiliar bronze flask. As he uncaps it, he gestures for Lafayette’s once again empty cup, and proceeds to fill it up with the clear content of the flask.

Confused, intrigued, and thankful for the replenishment, Lafayette brings it to his lips, the smell of the drink hitting him at the same time as the liquid touches his tongue. He swallows it and lowers the cup, looking at the doctor with wide eyes.

“This is rum,” the Marquis breathes, stunned. How is he afforded such luxury? _Why?_

“Quite correct,” Brocklesby answers nonchalantly as he uncaps the familiar green bottle.

When no explanation follows, Lafayette blinks down at his cup for a moment before raising it back to his lips for another blissful sip. The pleasant burn of the alcohol is already warming his insides, a comfort he had not believed he would ever feel again. It also serves to slightly numb his screamed-raw vocal cords, which he hopes will allow for smoother word vocalization.

However, it does no wonders for his trembling limbs.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, receiving a brief but compassionate quirk of the lips in response. A fleeting thought of how Brocklesby would surely get along with Alexander, in his silent but dignified demurral in regards to verbally addressing words of gratefulness, passes through Lafayette’s mind. He quickly shoves the reminder away to the back of his brain.

Soon enough, the doctor is ready to begin cleaning the wire marks properly. Lafayette is not fast enough to bite down a whimper as Brocklesby presses the soaked rag against the first line. The liquid, despite its usual burn, is soothing in its coolness.

“H-How fares your wife, Amelia?” he asks in a rush, both to distract himself from the renewed searing heat and the incoming refreshed memories of the wires sinking into his skin.

Admittedly, he asks out of polite curiosity as well, hoping to hear pleasant news regarding the good doctor.

And if the act of conversation gives him a sense of normalcy and dignity, then he will not deny himself the attempt either.

“She is well,” Brocklesby answers, and Lafayette wonders if his own voice softens as well when he speaks of his beloved Alexander and Washington. “She has recently requested to plan a visit along with Elizabeth.”

Lafayette flinches as the doctor moves on to the second line, but succeeds in keeping his pained noises in check this time. “Th-That is good news, is it not? You must c-certainly miss them.”

He takes another sip of the rum, his throat unused to the intricate vocal work necessary for conversation after nothing but screams for days on end. He observes, curious, as a frown appears on the doctor’s brow. He fears having misspoken and worn out the older man’s patience with his questions.

Who is he to ask such intrusive queries? The British doctor is not his tent mate, or even his cell companion. Lafayette considers himself foolish for believing this; their occasional conversations are nothing but idle talk. Brocklesby gains nothing from them, except perhaps useless information to give his superiors.

A wave of shame traverses him. Should he be so ungrateful as to deny the doctor’s obvious compassion and the resulting humane treatment of him? It would seem that Epaulettes’ accusations of his pathetic and unwanted self once again prove to be true.

“I do not wish for them to come here,” Brocklesby admits with a heavy sigh, drawing Lafayette’s focus back onto him. “I cannot have the woman I cherish the most be witness to such an environment, much less my sweet, angelic daughter.”

Lafayette then cocks his head questioningly. “I do not understand. The soldiers here do not accept visitations from a beloved?” He dares not to ask if it is a fear of some soldiers’ lack of decency towards the fairer sex.

Brocklesby shakes his head, eyes still focused on his work. “They do. However, it is rather that I am unwilling to expose Amelia and Elizabeth, who by all means embody my conscience, to the horrors of war.”

At that, he looks up at Lafayette, regret and shame shining in his eyes. Lafayette then understands, remembering the way Epaulettes had taunted him with the information of his soldiers’ enjoyment of his pain.

He allows himself the wishful thought that the doctor is regretful and ashamed of what has been done to another human being, and not of his unwillingness to permit his family to join him here. The latter, Lafayette thinks, is more probable.

After all, he remains the enemy, however defenseless he may be without the pride of his blue coat.

“I... I am sorry.” Lafayette is not sure if he is apologizing for the fact that Brocklesby cannot allow his wife to travel here, or for the fact that his weakness is at fault for the doctor’s decision. Once again, probably the latter.

Silence falls for the remainder of the cleaning on Lafayette’s left arm. Brocklesby finishes wrapping it in bandages and pulls out another rag to move on to the other arm.

“Are you wed, Mr. Lafayette?” Brocklesby asks after dabbing at the third line of the Marquis’ right arm, his voice casual.

“I am not,” the Frenchman answers, and debates ending the subject here. Yet, the sudden, increased need to voice aloud an image of Alexander takes precedence. “However, my heart is well taken.”

“Oh? And by whom?” The doctor’s tone holds no malice nor ulterior motive in his question, encouraging Lafayette to let his heart speak and form the name of his beloved without preamble.

“Alexan–” he clears in throat to hide his foolish mistake, thinking quickly to rectify it. “Alexane.”

The older man hums, nodding. “I have heard you call for her before. Although at the time I had believed you to be asking for ‘Alexander’. I assumed him to be a brother, given the affectionate tone.”

“The names sound alike in French,” Lafayette comments lightly. He may already be on a slow death row, but he is still unwilling to have the good doctor turn away from him after finding out that his beloved is in fact a man. Or two, in this case. “In truth, my heart has been stolen twice. Alexane and... Georgette, the most skilful thieves.”

This earns a chuckle from the doctor. “Then you must be a man with a good heart, to have it stolen twofold.”

Lafayette wishes to answer that he is inclined to believe so, and that his heart has most certainly been blessed by Aphrodite herself. But then the burning sensation on his arm reminds him that he has been abandoned to rot. Thus, the words die on his tongue as his heart seems to finally absorb the last shard of betrayal.

_‘Regrettable casualty.’_

The whimper that escapes him this time is not caused by the physical pain, reflecting instead the turmoils of his soul. He is unloved, _alone_. No one will mourn him. Washington has demonstrated no mirroring of Lafayette’s grief at their forceful separation, and he is certain Alexander must have known about the whole exchange.

His execution will mean nothing to neither of them; his love has been trampled, spat on, thrown away to the canals to drown.

He does not realize he has shut his eyes and begun to cry until the taste of salt reaches his lips. He ducks his head to cover his shameful display, gritting his teeth and willing the tears to stop, unsuccessfully so. He silently curses his lifelong lack of control over his emotions, or his ‘ _personnalité sentimentale_ ’ as his grandmother would fondly call it. Mercifully, he manages to at least swallow down a wet sob, trading it for a choked sound.

His dreams of a peaceful, loving future alongside Alexander and Washington burn to ashes behind his eyelids, the ash then liquifying into more tears. What had he done so wrong in his young life to deserve such loss? His father struck down in battle, his mother abandoning him for the luscious Parisian life, his countrymen calling for his imprisonment under treason, now his lover, and the one he would never have the honor to call such, leaving him to suffer until death.

If none of his loved ones ever fought to remain at his side, to protect him, to care for him as he did for them, then was he ever truly loved in return?

He wonders on the myths of mourning, or unrequited lovers dying of a broken heart, for surely the pain he feels in his must be fatal. He is unsure which is more torturous: the physical torment, or the emotional one.

“What should they be like,” Brocklesby’s voice cuts through his sorrowful thoughts, “Alexane and Georgette?”

Lafayette hesitantly opens his eyes and focuses his gaze on the green bottle standing next to the doctor’s knee. He smiles tearfully, an echoing grimace of his heartbreak, already feeling his heart tremble with the thought of Alexander and Washington.

“Th-They are the most wonderful m– women to ever walk on this Earth.” He breathes out shakily, conjuring the first time he had met Alexander. “Alex– Alexane is... She is more clever than every scholar of America and Europe, a _magnifi–_ magnificent tactician. Hi- Her words capture the mind of any fortunate enough to hear them.”

The words continue to tumble from his mouth without filter, desperate to bask in the memories of his two most cherished men. “She is fierce, passionate, loyal, she would never allow anything to defeat her. She is most beautiful, and her eyes, they are more sublime than any star. Amethyst.” He swallows thickly. “Her heart is shy but open, full of desire to love.”

Next, he pictures Washington, on the battlefield, at his desk, holding his hand, holding him close, asking him to return to him safely.

“Georgette is, ah, a force of the nature. She is safety, wisdom, brave; a pillar of morality. She is older, but of great beauty. Her eyes are dark with tragedy, but light with compassion also. She must be stronger than her... than her family, for without her, we would not stand today.”

He pauses to breathe through the stubborn sobs which continue to threaten him with their appearance. “Her heart is of gold, of that I have learned. She hides this soft part, but it is not possible to resist her love.”

He huffs a humorless laugh. “I was never worthy of them.”

Blinking away the last of his tears, Lafayette looks up, surprised to see the doctor already wrapping the bandages around his right arm; with his heart both soaring and sinking during his descriptions of his two beloved, he had not felt the pain of the burns.

When he is done, Brocklesby sits back on his heels, looking at Lafayette with compassionate eyes, a small smile on his lips. “From the way you were allowed close enough to see such details of their person, I believe they thought you more than worthy, Mr. Lafayette.”

Lafayette nearly produces a sound between a laugh and a sob, holding it back with an audible swallow. Once, before Brandywine, he would have had no objection to such a statement; he had believed in his own worth, in his bravery, in his charms, in his loveable heart. Now, however, he has been proven wrong in all such beliefs. Now, he wonders how he ever could have gained Alexander and Washington’s intimate affections.

Has he any right to wish for them to desire their reunion?

Oh, but he is weak to the strength of his yearning for one more sight of his darling Alexander and dearest Washington. Just one more blessing from Fate; that is all he be bold enough to request before he may succumb to the darkness which continues in its cruel mission to envelop his dimming soul. Once, Lord knows how long ago, his motivation to survive and escape had been centered around the hopes of embracing the two loves of his life again, of joining his lips to theirs one after the other, of fighting for a future in which they could live together.

Now, should he by some miracle escape this Hell, he should not dare to assume he remains an occupant of either Alexander’s or Washington’s heart, not when they have abandoned him to his fate, and not when he has shown his true colors: frailty, worthlessness; a pariah.

He should only wish to gaze upon them one last time before–

Before what? What is there left for him to accomplish in his meaningless life? He serves no purpose, to no person nor country. Would he remain here in America, a burden to others whose contributions are valuable and wanted? Would he subject himself to further humiliation, this time from his own allies, as they laugh at his failures and ridiculous attempts at glory? Would he find the will to carry on while the consequences of his injuries render him all the more useless? Would he find the courage to remain in the same vicinity as the two men whose love he has lost?

Or would he once again surrender to cowardice and return to France, a traitor to Louis’ crown? Would he be pardoned due to his status as an affluent nobleman, and set free to live his remaining decades in loathsome privilege and sloth as the others of his pedigree do? Would he exhale his last breath on a luxurious bed, surrounded by a wife and descendants who await his death with either eagerness or apathy, while the only two men he has ever loved have lived a life worthwhile without a thought of him to spare?

Would he simply give in to the inevitable and meet his insignificant death on the nearest battlefield, arms spread in invitation, heart begging to be shot? Would he finally find an ounce of courage and turn his pistol onto himself, effectively eliminating the rotten apple from his family tree, to be mourned and remembered by none?

Regardless of his choice, he does not wish, nor intend, to spend the rest of his days locked up like an animal, the subject of morbid amusement to those who would throw his body into an unmarked grave –if not a latrine pit. He would rather die fighting as the competent soldier he has always wanted to be, taking as many of his enemies as possible with him to Hades’ door.

Perhaps, as the light would fade from his eyes, he would receive a merciful vision of his beloved, smiling down at him and telling him he has done well, that all will be alright.

The sudden surge of determination is blessedly enough to render the decimating voice in his head to a temporary whisper, as though a galloping horse diverted from cobblestone to grass. However, even this newfound resolve cannot preclude the ferocity with which doubt and despair be carved into the deepest walls of his mind.

Lafayette offers a shy upwards twitch of his lips to the doctor. The doctor most assuredly does not know the inner turmoil and the change of tides that has happened inside Lafayette’s mind from his simple statement. Still, Brocklesby nods in approval, perhaps also in encouragement, and reaches for his flask to pour the rest of its content to top up Lafayette’s cup. He packs up his bag, and stands.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Lafayette whispers, “For all you have done for me.” He means it, knowing full well that both the added rations and alcohol were his own initiatives, as was his humane treatment of he who should be considered an enemy.

Brocklesby sighs. “Do not thank me when there is much more I could do.” He turns on his heels and heads for the door, stopping halfway, seeming hesitant. He looks back at the Frenchman. “Trust not what they tell you, Mr. Lafayette.”

And with that, he walks up the steps, opens the door, and with a final glance, closes it behind him.

Lafayette is left in the dark, the light from the arrowslit his only companion once more. He picks up the apple, and slowly chews on it, relishing the taste. He washes it down with the rum, savoring each drop as he wills it to soften his aches.

When he is done with both his delectable drink and flavorous food, he begins fiddling with the empty cup for a lack of anything else to do, closing his eyes and leaning heavily against the damp wall. He is incredibly tired, although that seems to have become a constant state of his. Perhaps it is the rum working its miracles, but Lafayette does indeed find himself with a renewed spark of mental strength to survive as opposed to the sordid thinking that had invaded him mere moments ago.

He must find a way out of here. He must return to Alexander, to Washington, to John. He must prove to them, to his tyrannical captors, and to himself that there remains in him the soul of a fighter, even if it kills him to do so. He is a _Lafayette_ , after all, no matter his failures. His ascendants were known for their tactical insanity, for their fierce spirit in the face of danger, and for their unbreakable tenacity against any and all foes.

If his legacy be to follow such a path for even the barest of moments, then so be it.

A brief, shrill sound startles him out of his thoughts.

He looks down at his cup. He had not realized how he had been absent-mindedly scratching at its exterior in his reborn resolve. He gives it another tentative scratch, feeling the metal protesting under his nail. He raises the cup up closer to his eyes, and notices how worn and cheap it actually is, the utensil reinforced with no more than a measly inch of lightweight aluminium. Surely a few blows to its side with a hammer would suffice to render it flat. The handle seems no sturdier than the body, uneven in its thickness, curved into an obtuse ‘U’ shape. Given the poor state of its connecting angles to the rest of the cup, it would surely snap off first.

Lafayette blinks, and twists the cup into his hands until the handle can fully be examined under his gleaming eyes.

An aluminium handle alone could be compared to a small makeshift dagger. Broken off the cup, it could be transformed into a _sharp_ dagger. It could be his escape, given enough time. The chances of success are slim to none, and the consequences of failure would be most dire –Lafayette is certain that Epaulettes and Long Coat are more than capable of engineering impossibly crueller manners of inflicting him pain.

Nevertheless, he cannot allow this idea to go by unconsidered. Besides, he lacks the array of choices.

Taking a deep breath, Lafayette takes a hold of the blanket with one hand while holding the cup, using the other to push himself up. He struggles to stand as his legs are weak and shaking, his mind light-headed, and the slowly scarring skin on his back protesting against any kind of movement. Limping step by limping step, he heads towards the hook a few feet away. He cannot recall whether his last ‘butcher’s meat day’ had been recent or long ago, but nevertheless, seeing the cursed object so close again almost deters him from going through with his idea.

Inhaling and exhaling deeply through his teeth, as he forces the memories of the punishments his first and only attempt at physically fighting back had earned him to be dealt with later, he lifts the cup and slips the handle on the hook. He begins rubbing it up and down the curved instrument, relishing in the frictional sound it creates.

Each up and down movement, and its resulting groaning of the metal, secures him an additional drop of hope and single-mindedness.

It is time to uphold his oath of rebellion.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translations:  
>  personnalité sentimentale: sentimental personality [sensitive]


	17. Markings of the Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi dear Readers!
> 
> My apologies for the late update; the new semester has just started, and I've been busy organizing. 
> 
> Anyway, this chapter contains some darker themes that I will be adding to the tags, and here just in case. We are nearing Act II, so to speak! I hope you enjoy!
> 
> ***WARNING***
> 
> Threats of Rape/Non-con  
> Non-con frottage  
> Graphic torture

* * *

It rains. 

It has not stopped raining for days. The weather seems to reflect the soldiers’ spirits –or perhaps it is the soldiers who reflect the weather. Regardless of who mirrors who, morale is low in Valley Forge. Weather aside, disease begins to spread rampant throughout the camp, from a harmless flu to deadly dysentery, incapacitating soldiers from all units, pinning them feverishly to their beds. 

John is no exception, falling prey to a malicious cold. Thankfully, he recovers quickly enough, nurtured by a worryingly tensed up Alexander, who had threatened to cut his hair short should he remain sick much longer.

Perhaps Alexander has not yet entirely forgiven John for his brush with death at Germantown. 

Washington begins pushing his aides and secretaries to rest for longer periods of time, unwilling to risk their health. All but Alexander readily agree, leaving the chief aide-de-camp to sneak letters into some quiet corner of the house while others retire before the sun has even set, and, when feeling bold, into the General’s quarters. 

It has been an odd feeling for Alexander to set foot in Washington’s bedchamber, alone, with the orange daylight still illuminating the room. Washington has yet to react past an exasperatedly raised eyebrow at Alexander on every occasion he re-enters his chambers to see his chief of staff hunched over the desk, hard at work. 

The General will wordlessly let him continue while he busies himself as well. 

There has been a new, unacknowledged tension between them since the evening they had walked outside of camp, since Alexander had slipped and nearly fallen, only to be caught by Washington’s sturdy hands; not only had their discussion on top of the hill been enough to make Alexander’s gears turn wildly, but the incident during their descent back to camp had nearly sent him into an entirely different crisis. 

He had wanted to kiss Washington. 

He had inadvertently looked down to the man’s lips, their closeness prohibiting any discretion of the eye movement. Yet, Washington had not backed away, but neither had he moved forward. He had simply observed; his awareness or ignorance of Alexander’s inner desire and resulting turmoil remains yet a disturbing and unsolved mystery.

While neither man has addressed the incident since, a strained pressure has nevertheless arisen, yet without the coldness that had painfully followed the evening following Lafayette’s death. Instead, the shyness, guilt, and shame have been undeniably palpable in the air, however indiscernible in their exact source. 

Today, Alexander remains in the common workspace, alongside John, Tilghman, Gibbs, Harrison, and Meade. Moylan and Reed have been sent out on errands. It is early in the afternoon, but without a watch it would be difficult to tell given the clouds’ yet unbroken grey tint.

The rain drops pluck down on the windows with rapid and steady rhythmic repetition, creating a quiet and pensive atmosphere while the sound of pen scratching on paper unknowingly adds to the solemn scene. Alexander despises it; the rain, the quiet. It stifles him, allows him to waver between his focus on the letter under his quill and the unwanted thoughts of his beloved Gilbert. 

Gilbert, who would always manage to enliven even the dullest of rainy days with his bright humor and optimistic attitude. 

Gilbert, who would look up at the sky, eyes closed and arms spread wide to his sides, grinning as the rain would drizzle or at times pour on his face, proudly declaring that he loved the rain in America more than he did in Europe, because to him it meant the fields of this nation would be well-watered in time for her freedom. 

Gilbert, who would laugh at the dishevelled state of his own hair after standing under the rain for too long and purposely shake the water off onto a squawking and indignant Alexander, before lovingly kissing away the resulting disgruntled expression. 

Gilbert, whose ridiculous twirls on the wet pavements he will never see again, because he has failed him and left him on the battlefield to die _and he should have stayed and now he is dead and it is his fault–_

“Gentlemen,” Reed’s voice comes from the door, mercifully bringing Alexander out of his melancholic thoughts. His coat is dripping wet, water nearly pouring from it onto the floorboards. To say the man looks worn out would be an understatement. “General Washington is requesting two of you by the Eastern gate.” 

A series of groans begin to rise in the room, but Alexander is already standing up before anyone else can think of volunteering –not that they would want to, more partial to remaining dry in this relatively temperature-agreeable house. 

“Laurens and I will go,” he declares, stepping around the table with haste, itching to move, do _anything_ to get his mind off the all-too-near past. 

“We will?” John complains, but nevertheless follows his companion towards the door. “Since when do we voluntarily choose to soak ourselves to the bone, Hamilton?” 

Alexander waits until they are both outside to answer, drawing his coat tighter around himself as they begin to walk. “My apologies, Laurens,” he says, the light-heartedness failing to manifest in his voice. “It is only that...” _I were in desperate need to distract myself_. “Do you remember how he enjoyed the rain with such glee?” 

John looks at him, all semblance of annoyance vanishing in an instant, replaced by understanding and sadness. “I do,” he answers quietly, not needing to question to whom Alexander is referring.

They continue to walk in silence for some time, passing by other small cabins and tents, the camp almost appearing deserted as most soldiers have taken shelter where they can. Winter will be rough, they know. Already, many have deserted the camp, faced with a loss of hope for their cause and an unwillingness to put themselves through such living conditions for it. 

Others, such as General Conway, have been gaining volume in their disapproval of Washington’s tactics, his plans for their army, his responses to crises such as desertion, lack of proper food, uniforms, training, and anything else Conway can find to criticise.

“Do you think Mulligan knows?” John asks suddenly. 

Momentarily taken by surprise, Alexander wills himself to think clearly. He sighs. “By now, the whole of France has been informed, according to Franklin. Mulligan must have surely heard of it from someone, one way or the other.” 

John frowns. “He has not contacted the General then? Or Tallmadge?” 

Alexander shakes his head. “He has not, to my knowledge that is,” he answers, and pauses. “He and Gilbert were the first to become acquainted, were they not?” 

John nods, a small smile playing on his lips. “Mulligan informed me that the very first sentence Lafayette addressed him was,” there, John does his best impression of a French accent, “‘I would have you show me what else your _habiles_ fingers may do, _Monsieur’_ , in reference to his pants.” 

Alexander barks out a laugh, entirely unsurprised that Lafayette would approach a stranger with such a statement. “What did our strong man have to say in regards to such a request?” 

John grins then. “Nothing in the way of words. His fist, however, had a lot to express.” 

Alexander winces, knowing how strong Hercules Mulligan’s punches can be, if given the proper incentive. “And did he...?” 

John waves his hand dismissively, his fond smile still in place. “No, Sir. Lafayette managed to successfully dodge any attempts of Mulligan’s to reshape his nose, all the while apologizing and rambling about pants and _couture._ ”

Alexander chuckles merrily, the image of his Marquis, all flustered and fearing for his face, is an entertaining one indeed. “And somehow, they became thick as thieves.” 

John shrugs amusedly. “Somehow they did.” 

It is not difficult for Alexander to conjure a reality where Lafayette befriends all fortunate enough to cross his path, or for all who initially judge the Frenchman to be eccentric and annoyingly loud to quickly fall under his spell, and inevitably smile in the face of his unique quirks. 

Alexander, for his part, had been thoroughly entranced by the flamboyant man before even speaking to him, his heart immediately declaring itself taken with the Frenchman. 

Even Washington’s initial reluctance at having another aristocrat join their midst had quickly given way to a warm welcome soon after their first –and arguably disastrous– meeting. 

Hercules, it seems, had been curious and perhaps amused enough to give the Frenchman a second chance at an introduction. 

John, well John had... 

“Say, Laurens, how did you meet Lafayette?” he asks, realizing that he had never asked before. It had not occurred to him until now, with Hercules’ story told, to ask about John’s. Alexander had bonded with John with such zeal, that it had almost seemed impossible for the taller man to have been anywhere but in his life and vice-versa before that night at the tavern. 

John’s smile turns fonder, eyes glazing slightly. “It was a glorious meeting, Hamilton.” 

Alexander chuckles, glad to see John’s good spirit has not left with the more personal memory of their fallen friend. “Surely, it could never be as glorious as our collective introduction?” 

“Naturally not,” John winks at him. “However, it did involve an element I am certain you would have readily welcomed: a brawl.” 

“You would make such bold assumptions of my person?” Alexander gasps mockingly. “I shall faint with shock, Sir!” 

John levels him with a look, rendered all the more comical by the rain dripping down his face. “Did I or did I not catch word of you punching a certain bursar at Princeton?” 

Alexander grins sheepishly. “Point taken, Laurens. Do carry on with your _glorious_ tale.” 

Satisfied, John continues. “He came to my aid, only a few nights prior we met you, outside the temporary housing in which I resided before my enlistment. As I recall, it was raining in a similar fashion as it is today. A couple of dim-witted imbeciles had not been able to lead a civil argument on the issue of slavery, you see. They therefore had seen it fit to attempt to silence me with their blows rather than their words, however nonsensical their spluttering would have been.” 

“An indubitable mistake on their part, I predict,” Alexander smirks, quite familiar with John’s relentless fighting technique. Rarely does a man request a second round against John Laurens. 

“Quite,” John confirms. “And I had it all well in hand, but Lafayette only saw a stranger unfairly facing two, and naturally came to insist.” 

“Without knowing the reason for your fight?” Alexander asks, curious. 

“Not at first, no,” John clarifies. “But soon enough he understood on which moral side my opponents stood upon, and I believe his punches gained a new strength after that.” 

Alexander laughs, his heart feeling lighter with John’s retelling of his and Hercules’ stories, and with the new insights on Lafayette’s adventures. How he wishes he could have heard them all, every single detail of the Frenchman’s life, straight for his lips. 

They stop a few feet away from the gate. 

“Thank you, John,” Alexander says then, sincere gratitude lacing his voice, “For telling me. Hearing you speak of him like this, it... it almost feels as though he has not left.” 

John clasps his forearm, squeezing it affectionately, the gesture instantly returned by the other man. “Anytime, Alexander.” 

* * *

_That evening_

“I have something to show you.” 

Alexander raises his head to look at John, raising his eyebrows in question before returning to sewing close a small tear on the cuff of his coat earned from an afternoon of climbing up and down the Eastern watchtower.

Their shared living quarters at Valley Forge are no bigger than the ones in Lancaster, small enough for even a whisper to be heard. Thus, Alexander allows himself to keep his attention on the mending of his uniform while he awaits for his friend to speak.

John fidgets where he stands while also preparing himself for bed. Nowadays, the soldiers simply divest themselves of their coats, cravats, and boots, opting to keep their socks, breeches, and open waistcoats on. On particularly windy nights, they sometimes resort to keeping their blue coats on as well –should they be dry–, given the battered condition of their blankets. 

“You recall my leisurely interest, correct?” he asks. “Regarding sketches?” 

“Mhm, faune and flora,” Alexander responds distractingly. “Have you drawn another, Sir? Given the latest weather, I would surmise your inspirations to currently lay with turtles.” 

John chuckles, albeit a bit nervously. “No, not this time, have no worries.” 

Alexander looks back up, a sudden serious expression in his eyes. “My dear Laurens. You know I cherish every granted opportunity to peruse your sketches.” 

John waves off the subject, heading to crouch by his trunk and beginning to dig through it. Alexander watches him, deciding to put his sewing on hold as curiosity takes the better of him. Having seemingly found a specific sketch book out of many, John stands back up, holding it to his chest, whatever drawing he wishes to show to Alexander hidden. 

“I have only finished it as of recently,” John tells him, his voice uncertain. “And I have long debated with myself on whether to show it to you.” 

Alexander offers him a reassuring smile, sets his uniform coat aside and stands. “I am glad to hear you have found your artistry once more,” he tells him encouragingly. “Whatever it is you have created, I will without a doubt adore it.” 

Two red spots appear on John’s cheeks, and he shakes his head. “That isn’t quite so. You see, I only occasionally dabble in portraits,” he explains. “Therefore, as they are not my forte, they take some time to complete. I...” 

He trails off, Alexander’s smile falling slightly, a frown appearing on his brow instead. “John?” 

John takes a deep breath. “Nearing the end of August, I had begun to pencil a gift. For Lafayette.” 

Alexander automatically tenses at the sudden mention of the Frenchman. No matter how the conversations he has had with John and the General about the Marquis have increased, or how even mere hours earlier they had readily talked about him, he cannot help his reaction when Lafayette’s name is brought up without warning. 

Truthfully, Alexander does not believe he will ever manage to remain impassive upon hearing the name of his departed lover. 

Taking his friend’s silence as permission to continue, John glances down at his sketchbook. “I was never satisfied with it, which is why I allowed myself to ameliorate it past the date it should have been due, until I deemed it ready. And now...” 

He trails off once more, his eyes glazing over this time in a way Alexander has become familiar with witnessing. Alexander stands, stepping forward to gently set a hand on his friend’s shoulder, startling the other man back to the present. 

“Ah, my apologies,” John clears his throat, blinking a few times in rapid succession, no doubt attempting to rid himself of the memories. “Well, I finished it near a week ago, and I, um, I wondered if perhaps you would... if perhaps you would wish to have it?” 

Slowly, hesitantly, John pulls the sketchbook away from his chest, looks down at the page one final time, and, with his eyes cast downwards, hands it to Alexander. 

Feeling both nervous and concerned about his friend’s state, Alexander keeps his hand firmly on his shoulder, taking a hold of the sketchbook with his other. 

His heart skips a beat. Two. Three. 

There, portrayed as though time had stopped in that moment and painted itself on paper, are the familiar faces of himself and his beloved Gilbert. They are drawn sitting next to each other on what could be bales of hay, dressed in their uniforms, expressions alight with glee, their knees touching, their hands joined between them. They seem to be in livened conversation, yet also lost in each other’s eyes, comfortable in this stolen moment. 

Alexander’s eyes are riveted on Lafayette’s features; the glint in his eyes, the wide grin and its adjacent dimples, his strong and elegant jaw, the royal shape of his nose, his auburn hair tied back into a neat braid, a single wayward straw poking out of it. His posture is at ease, leaning slightly forward towards Alexander as though unconsciously seeking more closeness. 

Alexander has never been as moved as he is by strokes of a thin grey pencil. 

_His beautiful Gilbert..._

His breath catches as his heart struggles to find its rhythm once more. He had not considered until this moment that, decades from now, Lafayette’s visage could have risked fading from his memory against his will, or at the very least, the fine but no less crucial details could have begun to blur out of his recollection. The thought horrifies him. 

But now, looking down at the perfect likeness of his treasured Gilbert, Alexander knows he will never need to worry about such devastating possibilities. 

“Alex?” comes John’s concerned voice. “If it displeases you, I can–” 

“ _No_ ,” Alexander is quick to respond, eyes lingering on the jewel in his hands before looking up at John, his eyes wet. “No, it is... John, thank you, this is...” He swallows thickly, attempting a smile, which he feels to be closer to a grimace as he attempts to keep his composure. “This is stunning. You undoubtedly have an innate talent for capturing beauty.” 

They both know Alexander is referring to Lafayette’s portrayal and not his own –although he is certain he is just as well represented. John moves to stand next to Alexander, peering down at his own drawing. They remain silent for some time, simply gazing down at their friend’s carefree expression with bittersweet tenderness. 

“He truly was an extraordinary man,” Alexander whispers eventually, fingers itching to caress the fibrous face of the man he desperately wishes to be able to touch again, to hold, to kiss, to whisper loving promises over and over until they have fully seeped into the center of his heart. 

John’s arms sneak around Alexander’s shoulders, holding him close to his side. “The most extraordinary of us all.” 

* * *

_Forty-six days after the battle_

As soon as the click of the lock reaches his ears, Lafayette pulls the cup off the hook, and practically throws himself back in his corner, dropping the cup next to him. He bites down a groan at his less-than-graceful landing, every part of him protesting such incoordination, instead making sure the cup is set down in a casual manner.

According to the dulled cramps in his stomach, he has been fed too recently for it to happen again, meaning it is time for another session. 

Presumably about a week has passed since the formation of his rough plan, his cup slowly but surely arriving to a breaking point. He has had not much time nor, more importantly, the sufficient energy to devote to his endeavor, given his state of being when brought back to his cell.

Indeed, mere hours after Brocklesby’s visit, the British soldiers had reverted back to holding him underwater. Lafayette’s reaction to that realization had been of great amusement to Epaulettes, Long Coat, the third soldier guarding the room, and whoever else is hereby told of his cries of helpless panic.

Truthfully, Lafayette can not decide which method of interrogation terrifies him the most. At the very least, being bound by searing metal wires did not make him believe he was being touched by Death itself. But then again, the freezing water holds no putrid smell of burnt flesh. 

Thus, Lafayette has now become unsure of what to expect anymore, of how gravely he will be hurt or left unable to move out of pain and terror. Morbidly, he wishes his captors would resort back to whipping his flesh open. This, at least, he could somewhat comprehend and mostly keep his wits about him.

As he has long since done, Lafayette offers no struggle when Long Coat comes to drag him up by the hair, deciding to save his strength for his secret project –he may now comfort himself with the thought that he is not completely defeated anymore, no matter how much uncertainty lingers.

He attempts to calm his breathing as well, so that he may hopefully not inhale the water immediately upon the start of today’s session. 

Keeping his reactions to a mere wince and muffled whimper while he stumbles under Long Coat’s grip also permits him to notice the odd absence of the higher ranked British officer. 

He tells himself it matters not, for surely he will see him soon enough. His instincts, however, beg to differ, urging him to remain alert. Internally scoffing at the advised but ultimately useless caution, the Marquis instead redirects his thoughts to neutrally soothing ones in an effort to create even the bleakest of shields; Chavaniac. His first horse. His admittance to the _Mousquetaires de la Garde._ A successful fencing motion–

Lafayette is suddenly brought out of his thoughts when, halfway through the corridor, he is abruptly slammed against the nearest wall, his forehead pressed against the hard surface and his arms held tightly behind his back. 

He gasps in surprise, the shock of the collision making quick work of traversing his entire body, even as he reflexively attempts to push back. However, Long Coat easily keeps him pinned, using his weight and superior strength as leverage. 

“I have been watching you, _scum_ ,” Long Coat growls, thus speaking his first words to Lafayette since his arrival. Like Brocklesby, he sports a British accent, but it seems to originate from a different region than the doctor’s; it is more rugged, his voice like hard gravel, low and intimidating.

Lafayette refrains from answering, the stupor of this unfamiliar development rendering him momentarily frozen, all the while fearing that his plan for an escape has been discovered. 

Long Coat disparages that fear, however, replacing it with another as he presses the Marquis impossibly further against the wall, leaning in close to whisper in his ear. “The way your body has become such a broken little thing.” 

A beat of confusion. 

Then, a sudden cold and viscous weight settles in the Frenchman’s stomach as the wording dawns on him, no mistranslation possible to explain away the venom and feral _hunger_ dripping from the soldier’s voice. 

Before he can truly fathom the meaning and foresee the implication, Long Coat’s knee nudges between Lafayette’s legs with disgustingly obvious intent. 

Lafayette gasps, horrified, and finally begins to struggle, weak as he may be. “ _Ne me touche pas_ –” he begins to choke out as his mind reely violently, only to find his jaw gripped, effectively silencing him. 

“Quiet, French whore,” Long Coat growls warningly, now rubbing his thigh on the Marquis’ backside. Lafayette’s eyes are wide with terror and disgust, his noise of distress is muffled by the other man’s hold on him. “You’ll see, in just a few more days, I shall have convinced my superiors to let me _interrogate_ you myself. No one but you and me, alone in that spacious cell of yours for _hours_.” 

The obscene and sordid promise makes the younger man whimper with raw fear, heart threatening to burst out of his chest, tears biting furiously at his eyes. 

“Captain!” an unknown voice calls out from the other end of the corridor. “We are ready for the prisoner!” 

With a parting dark chuckle, Long Coat pulls back casually, and proceeds to pull a stunned and green-looking Lafayette into the room he had had the displeasure of being familiarized with. 

Once in the room, Lafayette braces to be pushed against the barrel, but instead is shoved towards the bare table. Startled by the change and still rattled by the unexpected and revolting occurrence a couple minutes prior, he barely manages to catch himself before the sharp corner can dig too much into his midsection. He attempts to turn, only to be gripped tightly by the throat. He gasps breathlessly, hands coming up to scratch at Long Coat’s hands, who smiles cruelly. The man’s threat replays in his head, sending a shiver down his spine. 

Now more than ever, the feel of the soldier’s hands on him is sickening. 

As he is lifted off the ground, a gargled sound escapes him, turning into a choked cry as he is slammed down onto his back atop of the large table. The still-knitting skin from the lashes burns from the impact. 

Another soldier grabs his legs and manhandles him to lay flat on the hard surface, while two more pull the detached chains of his wrists down to pin his arms at his sides. With the practiced efficiency of trained soldiers, they nail two iron stakes through the chains’ links and into the wood in four efficient hammer blows, effectively keeping Lafayette’s arms immobile on the table.

Frightened of whatever new brutality they have planned for him in this all too vulnerable position surrounded by too many eager soldiers, Lafayette swallows down a whimper, eyes darting around frantically. His stomach drops as he spots the brazier sitting ominously on a smaller table close by, the barely healed skin on his arms flaring with phantom pain.

Epaulettes comes to stand at his side, as always seeming entirely at ease with this whole situation. He settles his hand on the back of Lafayette’s, causing the younger man to flinch. 

“Have you yet to count how many scars you have acquired since Brandywine, Major General?” he asks casually, his fingers caressing up the Frenchman’s arm with eerie daintiness.

Lafayette grits his teeth, both at the renewed throb the delicate touch nonetheless brings him, and at the unwanted touch, once again reminded of Long Coat’s despite their sharp contrast. Futilely, he pushes up against the hands and implements holding him down. 

“Why would I?” he hisses with false bravado.

Epaulettes chuckles. “Why would you not?” he retorts. “After all, you have nothing better to accomplish as you wait for us to add to the undeniably long list of markings upon your once unblemished, noble skin. It may keep you sane.” 

Lafayette resists the uncouth but highly appealing urge to spit at the man’s smug face, unwilling to anger his persecutor on top of his continued stubbornness. Instead, he simply attempts another shove upwards, quickly failing. 

Epaulettes tuts at him before turning to let Long Coat step forward. One of his hands is gloved, holding a dagger whose blade shines bright orange, the space around it shimmying with heat. 

Lafayette’s breaths become ragged with panic, wholly unprepared to go through this pain again, even after a week’s respite. His trembling increases wildly, prompting Epaulettes to move behind him and place his hands on the sides of Lafayette’s head to hold him steady. 

“What are you doing–” the Marquis croaks out, his voice breaking as Long Coat directs the blade a mere four inches above his right eye, the threat now abundantly clear. “No, please! You cannot–!” 

“What use do you truly have for both of your eyes, Major General?” Epaulettes says in a reprimanding tone, as though explaining to a child the error of his ways. “You will never aim a weapon at my men again, nor gaze at the fresh pastures of the British Empire for that matter.”

He attempts in vain to dislodge his head from Epaulettes’ grip, his rasped pleas falling from his lips in a senseless manner, terror lodged deep in every fibre of his being.

“Now,” Epaulettes continues without a hint of disturbance while rubbing his thumbs on the Frenchman’s temples in a morbid parody of a soothing gesture. “Is there anything you wish to say to me?” 

Droplets of sweat slide down his forehead and neck, tears already beginning to build in his eyes while choked whimpers are climbing out in a frenzy from his throat. His limbs twitch uselessly against the soldiers’ hold and the solid rods in his chains as he desperately fights to escape this inconceivable act. 

“What a shame, such expressive eyes,” the British soldier says, a smirk playing on his lips. 

The blade begins its descent, the bright orange gleam blinding, its heat already intolerable, closer and closer until– 

“With all due respect, Sir,” comes a familiar voice a few feet away, “I would advise against this course of action.”

The blade stops only an inch away from Lafayette’s eye. It does not stop the tears from escaping it, however. 

“Doctor Brocklesby,” Epaulettes acknowledges, gesturing for him to come closer. “Glad you could join us so early. Now tell me. Why should the French mutt’s eye be spared?” 

Lafayette’s gaze flickers between the blade and the approaching doctor, unable to properly see him due to the colored streaks now invading his vision, his pupils constricted both in fear and in reaction to the bright fiery blade. 

“I can ensure his flesh wounds remain uninfected,” Doctor Brocklesby explains calmly, only sparing a glance in Lafayette’s direction. “However, the eye is an intricate and fragile organ, one that cannot be treated as any other. Causing it injury of such nature is already tempting the Devil, but considering how the boy’s body is already fighting every wound it has been administered, the risk of infection would strengthen immeasurably, and his chances of surviving this ordeal would therefore become slim to none.” 

A few seconds of silence pass by, during which all that is heard is Lafayette’s erratic breathing. 

“Then I suppose he shall retain his sight,” Epaulettes declares, sounding both displeased and unbothered, as though the subject of Lafayette’s eyesight holds as much importance as a bug. “However, it would be a waste not to make use of this carefully treated dagger.” 

The blade moves away from Lafayette’s eye. The Marquis’ relief is short-lived, however, as Epaulettes suddenly pulls his hair sharply, tilting his head back and exposing his neck.

The dagger is then pressed flat on the right side of his throat. 

Lafayette screams, his entire body spasming in shock and agony, his skin burning– burning– _burning!_ Surely his throat is dissolving, the blade will melt his bones, slice his head clean off– 

And then the dagger is pulled away, leaving behind a searing throb and the thickest smell of burnt flesh yet, all the more stomach-twisting from its placement below his jaw. 

While he tries without success to contain the whines that cascade from his lips, a thick rag is suddenly thrown over his face, followed by a pour of water. He splutters, the soaked piece of cloth preventing him from breathing in anything but water. Another round quickly follows, making him choke. Water rushes down into his lungs and up his nose, and he _cannot breathe_ – _he is drowning_ – _Death extends its skeletal hand towards him and_ –. 

The rag is pulled away, allowing him a merciful breath. He is thrown back into awareness with nauseating speed, leaving him breathless and light-headed. He coughs, unsure and uncaring if what comes out is water or bile or both. 

“I believe you owe us a word of gratitude,” Epaulettes says, eternally condescending. “Your sight remains intact, and that little mark on your neck does not burn so much anymore now, does it?” 

Lafayette only continues to cough, struggling to inhale a proper lungful as terrified sobs steal whatever air he manages to take in. The newest addition to the mutilation of his body does, in fact, still burn as it did mere seconds ago –or has it been minutes, perhaps hours? 

Epaulettes tsks, and fists his hand tighter in Lafayette’s wet hair, pulling sharply. “Perhaps the little French traitor wishes for another to match the first?” 

Swallowing his next sob, Lafayette glances around him, through dancing blackening spots, at the smirking soldiers and Brocklesby’s pinched expression. Humiliation ravages his insides as much as the pain, but still he turns his tearful gaze back to Epaulettes, unwilling to be subjected to this agony again. 

“Th-Thank you,” he croaks, his voice hoarse and devoid of any strength. 

It mercifully seems to satisfy his captors. 

“Good,” Epaulettes says smugly, releasing Lafayette’s hair and stepping back. “Now, Doctor Brocklesby, you may ready yourself, we are almost done here for today.” 

Nothing happens for some couple of minutes or so, something happening out of Lafayette’s sight –not that it must matter anymore. The Marquis lies trembling, his eyes closed, and his mind threatening to shatter and leave his body to live the rest of his short, torturous time as an empty shell. At this moment, he cannot find a single reason not to let it retreat into blissful nonexistence.

Before he can allow it, however, his tattered breeches are pulled down and lowered just enough to expose his left hip bone. Somehow, he remains capable of feeling the alarm behind this action, and thus sluggishly opens his eyes to look down.

While his body is unable to react past its unending series of tremors, his heart does come to a brief stop at the sight of a branding iron. He is unable to make out the emblem, but he cares not for it when the instrument is just as hot orange and blinding as the dagger had been moments ago. 

Long Coat holds the end of the rod with his gloved hand, awaiting orders from his superior. 

“I would demand you hold yourself still, Major General,” Epaulettes taunts. “But who has need for accuracy?” He nods at Long Coat, who rubs his non-gloved thumb across the Frenchman’s unmarred skin with unhurried, repulsive leisure. 

_‘The way your body has become such a broken little thing.’_

Lafayette renews his struggles, his vision tunnelling, hot tears mixing with the remaining droplets of cold water. “D-Do not– Pl-Please do not do this,” he begs brokenly, desperate in his pleas even in what he knows to be an unvarying outcome. “ _Par_ – _Par pitié! A-Arrêtez! Arrê–_ ” 

The rest of his pleas are cut off by his own wails and the sickening sizzling of his sensitive flesh. Flashes of light burst behind his eyelids from the force with which he shuts his eyes. He could swear Zeus’ lightning has struck him in the hip, setting every inch of his body aflame. 

The withering pain lasts longer than the dagger’s, to the point where Lafayette cannot hear anything but a high-pitched ringing in his ears, believing himself to have been thrown into an active Mount Vesuvius to choke on his own ashes and sink slowly into molten lava. 

His heart has plummeted south, beating furiously in a futile attempt to fend off the excruciating streaks of the blaze that mauls beneath, from the surface of his skin to the very center of his bones. 

The agony seems never-ending, although he begins to hear the voices around him again. The mocking laughter and jeering taunts from the surrounding soldiers tempt him into wishing for eternal oblivion. The mortification burns in his soul just as hot as the two new marks do on his skin. 

Swallowing has already become a punishing chore as his jaw inevitably shifts with the movement. He continues to breathe in shallow pants, as any deeper inflation of his diaphragm pulls at the mutilated skin above his hip. 

It is no use to attempt to contain his wrecked sobs, however.

“Alright, gentlemen, you have been entertained enough,” Epaulettes calls. “Return to your duties. Doctor, if you would attend to your patient.” 

Lafayette does not react as Brocklesby begins cleaning the branding mark and peeling away the burnt skin around the emblem –whose symbol he dares not to allow his eerily quiet thoughts to speculate on–, too far off the edge to be fully aware of his surroundings past the few sounds of tools picked up and set down. 

What is a brush of tweezers amidst the inferno that encompasses his every nerve? 

A minute could have passed, or an hour, or a week, for all Lafayette truly comprehends is the way his body, already broken and disfigured beyond its capabilities to fully heal and erase the scars, has now been declared a possession. It is his no longer, and come another few days, it will be soiled in ways too unimaginable to even consider possible.

He tries to tell himself that he will not allow this to happen, but the rational part of his brain, addled as it currently is, reminds him cruelly that there is nothing he can do to prevent it. 

“Good work, Doctor,” he hears Epaulettes declare with satisfaction. “It was my father who taught me that when one brands cattle, it is favorable to ensure there are no loose peels while it is still hot, as to avoid any abrasion to the proprietary marker.” 

The words ‘cattle’ and ‘proprietary marker’ echo in Lafayette’s head in a nauseating waltz, drawing a whimper from his blood-torn lips.

The world under him vanishes suddenly, or perhaps he is simply being lifted off the table. It does not quite matter, as his consciousness fluctuates between falling into darkness and jolting back into a state of semi-awareness. 

When a blessed cool touches his burning skin with familiar roughness, Lafayette knows he is back in his cell. Cracking his eyes open to determine whether he is alone –as his heart skips a beat in alarm at the thought of possibly being in the sole company of Long Coat– proves to be a most difficult task. Still, he sighs in relief upon asserting that he has truly been left on his own for the time being. 

A cold shiver traverses his already trembling body, the feeling disquieting for the continuous heat that seems to compose his every fibre. Still, he refuses to look down at the insignia that now taints not only his physique, but his soul as well. 

Crawling back to his corner to the relative protection of his blanket proves to be a near impossible feat, his arms and legs collapsing under the barest weight. Still, it is worth the strain to be able to curl up under the only slim feeling of safety he can occasionally trick himself into believing. 

A hiccup jumps out of his aching throat, unsurprisingly followed by a sob. He bites down on his already torn lip and clenches his abdomen, desperately attempting to cease the incoming onslaught of grief to prevent such hectic movements for the sake of his newest burns. 

He is somewhat successful, burying his head against the blanket where his tears finish their rushed journey. 

_‘Cattle.’_

_‘The French wench does beg, after all.’_

_‘No one but you and me, alone in that spacious cell of yours for hours.’_

_‘Proprietary marker.’_

_‘Just a pathetic little child, aren’t you?”_

_‘Regrettable casualty.’_

_‘Only you can make it stop.’_

He opens his red-rimmed, tear-swollen eyes, slowly finding the aluminium cup with his gaze.

 _‘They thought you more than worthy, Mr. Lafayette.’_

He reaches for it with a trembling hand. 

_‘So long as you promise to come back to my side.’_

He closes his hand around it firmly, his thumb brushing against the numerous dents, scratches, and scuffs he had painstakingly engraved into the ends of the handle with persevering diligence. 

_‘Just you wait.’_

He takes a deep breath, bracing his aching muscles.

“ _Raise a glass to freedom_ ,” he whispers, raising the cup as high as he can, and smashes it on the cobblestone with strength he had not thought possible to summon. 

A sharp crack echoes in the cellar as the handle finally breaks away from the cup. The Marquis picks it up with incredulous disbelief, a genuine if perhaps maniacal laugh bubbling up his sore throat. 

For the first time since his capture, the tears he sheds are ones of hope.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translations:
> 
> -habiles: skillful  
> -Mousquetaires de la Garde: Black Musketeers  
> -Ne me touche pas: Do not touche me  
> -Par pitié! Arrêtez: Please! Stop


	18. One Chance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hi hi!
> 
> My apologies for the late update, as I was writing non-stop (HA!) for the Valentine's Day Project. But I back and hopefully focused to continue this fic, which has indeed become quite dear to me, particularly its readers <3
> 
> I do think I've exhausted much of my English capacities, as you might notice in this chapter haha ^^' Let me know!
> 
> WARNING:   
> -detailed descriptions of blood and gore  
> -threats of rape/non-con  
> -suicide ideation

* * *

_Previously:_

_“_ Raise a glass to freedom _,” he whispers, raising the cup as high as he can, and smashes it on the cobblestone with strength he had not thought possible to summon._

_A sharp crack echoes in the cellar as the handle finally breaks away from the cup. The Marquis picks it up with incredulous disbelief, a genuine if perhaps maniacal laugh bubbling up his sore throat._

_For the first time since his capture, the tears he sheds are ones of hope._

* * *

_ Forty-seven days after the battle _

Now. 

Now is his chance. 

Ear pressed against the keyhole of the wooden door, the slow steps of the single approaching guard resonate into Lafayette’s ear-drum. He quickly backs away from the stairs, and drops to the ground, tightening his makeshift hair tie –made of the damp pieces of straw lying around the cellar– around the shapeless bun. 

He brandishes the broken handle of the cup –which he had taken great care in sharpening as much as possible in the past few hours with the aid of the cup, blistering his own hands in the process– and aims the honed end towards his left hand. 

He hesitates for a couple crucial seconds: What if his plan should fail? What if the guard does not pay attention? What if he has miscalculated the time and it is not the guard who approaches his cell, but Long Coat, coming to make due on his word? 

Frail and weakened and unwillingly committed to fearing the man as he is, any chance of fighting and resisting will undoubtedly become nonexistant. 

If his fellow soldiers could see him now, brought to his knees with terror by the mere thought of one man. 

Regardless, should he even manage to step out of his cell, what would he do next? He does not know where to run. He only remembers noticing longer stairs on the opposite side of the barrel room. What if the door at the top is locked, or guarded by well-armed soldiers, all too willing to put a bullet through his skull, or a bayonet through his throat? 

What if he is recaptured, and Epaulettes sees it fit to punish him with manners impossibly worse than the ones Lafayette has already been subjected to? What if, then and there, he allows Long Coat to treat him as he wishes? 

Lafayette looks down at the makeshift knife, then at the palm of his hand, to his marked forearm. The unbound iron shackles –a mistake on his enemies’ part to have eventually forgone locking the chains back together –, he has noticed, have begun sliding higher up his arms as of recently. 

A dark thought emerges in his mind, the theme of it not exactly new; perhaps he ought to slide the sharp instrument along his arms instead and let himself bleed to death. The results of such an act would certainly provide higher chances of success than his haphazard escape plan. Perhaps he ought not to take the risk of making the remainder of his life even worse than it already is. 

Perhaps this cowardly act is to be the only true freedom he will ever get the chance to reach. 

But then he thinks of Alexander, of Washington, of John. Would he truly throw away his only chance at seeing them again? 

_ ‘I am not throwing away my shot!’ _

He shakes mentally shakes himself. This is no time to hesitate. He must be strong now, stronger than he has ever needed to be in his life. 

Thus, with Alexander’s loud proclamation filling his mind, Lafayette brings the handle down to his palm, hissing as he slices sharply into it. 

Blood immediately wells up to the surface, prompting Lafayette to close it into a fist and lie down on his back. He holds his bleeding fist above his face, letting the warm liquid trickle down to his sealed lips and slide down his chin. 

Finally, he hides his weapon by the small of his back and waits. 

He can hear the rain outside the arrowslit, each drop somehow startling his already rapidly beating heart. 

As the lock slides open, he turns his head towards the door and blinks in quick succession before stilling entirely, breath held, and eyes focused blankly on the bottom of the stairs. 

The door opens, and nothing happens for a few long and tense seconds. 

Morbidly, Lafayette is thankful for having been forced to learn to hold his breath for longer periods of time while underwater. 

Then, a curse and rushed steps towards him. Lafayette sees the soldier’s boots as they descend the three steps to stop in front of him. 

“ _ Damnit... _ ” the guard mutters to himself, clearly annoyed. “Why’d you have to die on  _ my  _ shift, you French piece of  _ shit _ ...” 

The British soldier carelessly probes him in the ribs with his boot, and it takes Lafayette a large portion of his will not to cry out and breathe through the pain, or blink away the burn in his eyes. 

The other man crouches next to him, and reaches out to take the Frenchman’s pulse at his neck, just as Lafayette thought –and hoped– he would. 

Lafayette tightens his grip on the handle, and, just as the guard places his fingers on his neck, suddenly grabs a hold of his arm and strikes. 

The British soldier attempts to cry out, but the sound is instantly gargled by blood rapidly filling his throat, gushing out of his mouth to fall on Lafayette’s face. 

The Marquis inhales deeply through his nose so as not to accidentally swallow the crimson liquid, almost gagging at the thick smell of iron, and sits up to push the soldier away. He watches him crumple to the floor, a large and fatal gash to the jugular quickly draining the life out of him. 

Lafayette does not waste a single second to stand, his bloodied weapon in hand, having already decided not to take the dying soldier’s as they would only hinder him by their weight. He is no fool after all; he is well aware that his time spent in this hellish confinement will have affected his ability to swiftly and expertly use either a slippery bayonet or a hefty rifle during his escape. 

Besides, his hands tremble too much to handle such complex weapons at the moment. Furthermore, his small makeshift knife has already proved to possess both the capacity to kill as well as the element of surprise. 

He does, however, divest the guard of his red coat and boots. It is an odd fit, as the boots squeeze too tight and the sleeves are unable to slide past his iron bracelets. Not caring for the state of the coat, Lafayette forces the cuffs back, causing them to rip to allow the passage for the bothersome shackles. 

Wearing the enemy’s colors disgusts him, but he is willing to bear it if it might give him even a single advantageous second’s worth of his upcoming adversaries’ confusion. 

With a deep breath, Lafayette runs out of his cell. 

Adrenaline is already pumping furiously through his veins as he reaches the end of the corridor. He stops, and peers to both sides. He counts his blessings as the lack of personnel allows him to swiftly ascend the stairs, where he is faced with the door. Both hesitant and fearfully hurried, he carefully tries the thin, metallic handle. 

The door does not budge. His stomach drops, his skin rising into gooseflesh. This cannot be the end. He has already somehow managed to get this far, has already taken a life for it, felt the warm blood of an enemy pour over his lips, his nose, his eyes. 

_ He must get out! _

He has no strength to break down the door, much less without alerting the guards potentially standing behind the door, or worse. He has neither the material nor the knowledge nor the  _ damn _ time to pick the lock, nor to lodge his weapon into the hinges.

_ What can he do?! _

His mind is addled with panic and urgency, his knees trembling with effort, and his injuries throbbing and burning. He cannot think with all the dread of his recapture, his fear manifesting through brimming eyes. 

_ Thinkthinkthink! Réfléchis, nom de Dieu! _

Every second without a solution is a second closer to consequences too monstrous to think about but too difficult to ignore. He needs to calm himself, he needs to think clearly, he needs to think like a soldier, he  _ needs _ to think like–

_ ‘Chess is not unlike war, my dear Marquis,’  _ had said Washington after having bested him embarrassingly quickly on their first chess match.  _ ‘All pieces are equally important. By focusing on my powerful, offensive pieces, you blinded yourself to an otherwise obvious but unceremoniously effective ambush. Do not be afraid to use means which your enemies might consider too salient to use.’ _

Perhaps it is the hysteria of his situation that settles into his mind in that moment, but a laugh nearly bubbles up his throat at the absurdity of the idea that pops into his head. But regardless of it, he is running out of time.

Thus, he raises his hand and knocks frantically on the door. 

“The prisoner is dying!” he shouts in his best imitation of an English accent, rough and rhotic. 

To his surprise and apprehensive relief, the sound of a key turning quickly follows his cry for wolf. When the door opens just a bit, he continues with the same agitated tone. 

“We must get Doctor Brocklesby–” 

Lafayette abandons the rest of his trap and pushes the door open with all his might, startling whoever is on the other side. He does not care to wait and find out how many soldiers are guarding the door, swinging his arm wildly, and stabbing the nearest body he can reach. 

This time, the soldier’s shout is not muffled, one hand clutching the spot on his shoulder where Lafayette has slashed him, the other reaching for his pistol.

The Marquis is quicker, however, jabbing the handle into the man’s neck as he did with the guard to his cell. 

The British soldier falls limp, the sound of his dying breaths not reaching Lafayette’s ears as the Frenchman is already moving forward, having asserted that, as Lady Fortune would have it, there are no other guards at this door. 

He creeps quickly along the corridors of what looks to be a grand house –perhaps a mayoral one or once belonging to an affluent family–, opting for discretion as it is doubtful no one has heard the alarmed shout. 

His dangling chains prove to be a clattering nuisance, however. 

True to his reasoning, one pair– two–  _ three _ pairs of footsteps come rushing his way, prompting Lafayette to duck into a nearby small alcove, hiding himself behind a decorative curtain. He forces his labored breathing to a pause as the soldiers run past him. 

The British are careless, it seems.

Had Lafayette gotten the chance to train even the lowest ranking soldiers, he would have taught them to leave no stone unturned, no corner unexplored, and no inch of a perimeter unchecked.

As soon as the footsteps have receded out of hearing range, he peeks out of his hiding place. With the hallway once again empty, he resumes his endeavor. His chest is already heaving with exhaustion, but still he continues to move rapidly but without clear direction. 

The house is definitely big enough to be a manor, he judges, although perhaps it is his dizzied vision which makes it look so. It does seem to lack the luxurious indoors to fit the description, yet certainly does not belong to no commoner. The floor is made of old but sturdy wood, only a few boards traitorously creaking under his boots. The walls are covered in an arabesque yellow wallpaper, the pattern reminding him of strangled figures and mucilaginous eyes. Rows of candelabras illuminate his way, but they do not help him to find the correct way out. 

A board creaks behind him, and he spins around, narrowly avoiding being impaled by a redcoat’s bayonet. He quickly dives out of the way once more as the soldier jabs at him again. As the other man prepares for another swing, Lafayette lunges forward, sliding to his knees, and delivers a shallow gash to the redcoat’s ankle, prompting him to lose balance long enough for the Marquis to yank him down and tear open his throat with his dagger.

Standing back up as his third victim bleeds out on the floor proves to be a herculean feat, his legs shaking with both fear and exhilaration. He spares no glance back at the body whose jugular he has lacerated. 

He passes by numerous doors, but does not dare to open them, lest it lead him straight into the hands of the enemy. He sets his aim on finding the largest one instead, figuring that the main entrance door will surely be bigger than the rest. 

Arriving at another turn, he stops abruptly as he comes face to face with another soldier. They take each in for a single second before reacting simultaneously. 

While the soldier is puffing his chest in preparation to give away their position, Lafayette is already jumping into action with a growl, jabbing the handle into the man’s chest. He does not stay long enough to watch him collapse. 

Fire is burning in his blood, blessedly numbing the pain in his shoulder and leg, and dulling the throbbing in the rest of his abused body. His vision is tinted red from the fury of his actions and the desperate need to escape –or perhaps it is the blood of his adversaries clinging to his eyelashes. 

He hears raised voices somewhere in the house, shouting orders. Feeling his time running out, he begins trying random doors, finding them all locked. A whimper almost escapes him as the sound of steps grow near, the fear threatening to overthrow his already frenzied nerves. 

He reaches a door in an impasse. He pushes at its handle, this time unable to hold back a fearful sound as it too is locked. He looks around frantically, seeking something,  _ anything _ that might help him. 

His eyes land on a bright streak of light a few feet away as it paints one of the walls, floating dust shining through it. 

Light. Where there is light, there must be a window. He must have somehow missed it in his tunnelled aim for the door. He sprints back towards the streak, finding another curtained alcove. He grips the crimson curtains, wretchedly hoping they do in fact hide a window, unlike the ones he has run by so far, and pulls them open. 

The brightness of daylight greets him harshly, making him squint. Nevertheless, he does not pause to adjust to it, much less to bask in it after God knows how many weeks without natural light, urgently praying to anyone who may listen that the glass window will allow itself to be opened. 

Exhaling sharply as  _ Dieu merci, yes _ , the window does push open, he is then greeted by the sweetest smell he has ever had the pleasure of inhaling: fresh air. 

He ignores the coldness on his skin, unable to care as it is a mere breeze against the fire that has been fuelling him since taking the life of the soldier in his cell. 

As he had heard from his cell earlier, it is raining. Thankfully, it is not a downpour, the clouds light grey rather than ominously dark. 

Idly, he wonders if he should have taken the thin blanket with him, but dismisses the thought; it would have been nothing but inconvenient. The red coat covering his bare back shall have to suffice for now against the elements of the outside; his freedom. 

Looking down, he is somewhat unsurprised but nonetheless relieved to find himself just slightly above the ground floor, correctly proving his theory about having resided in the basement. 

He tucks his weapon into his bun of hair, and promptly climbs over the ledge to hop down. He lands roughly on wet grass, the ache in his leg finally managing to catch his attention. He chokes down a whimper of pain but otherwise ignores it, just as he ignores the renewed flare of the brand above his hip.

He pulls the dagger-handle out of his hair, readying himself to use it again if needed as he breaks into a run. 

Unlike most of the campsites Lafayette has followed the Continental Army into –where run-down cabins were a luxury and battered tents a more frequent type of lodging–, this British encampment resembles an actual, prospering village with numerous habitable-looking houses surrounding the one he was held in. 

He could not have been moved too far from the battlefield, given the extent of his injuries at the time of the end of the battle. Could it be that this is Chadds Ford village? If so, he should head towards Chester, where their army had been instructed to retreat.

He decides to entertain this one, giving his current lack of other information and time to form another, more concrete one. 

But first, he must successfully escape the clutches of his enemies. 

He comes across two more soldiers who, taken by surprise, easily fall under the deadly combination of his sharp weapon, his accurate aim, and his desperation for freedom. The next one, however, manages to duck and land a blow to his jaw. Strangely enough, it barely rattles the Frenchman –although perhaps such a small offence is but a brush of air in comparison to how he has been treated at his captors’ hands. Thus, Lafayette slams into the soldier with feral strength, planting the handle deep into the redcoat’s ribcage, dragging it down until he gets a glimpse of his putrid intestines. 

Lafayette wonders how many more he must slay, his entire body demanding to shut down, adrenaline or no adrenaline. He refuses to entertain the thought of even stopping to catch his breath, else his slim chances of escape will decrease all the more. And so he continues to run, to duck behind house after house, heart slamming against his sternum as he peeks at the soldiers running towards the area where he was kept, orders of finding the Frenchman yelled out angrily. 

Unsure if he believes to have heard Epaulettes’ voice, he draws the coat tighter around himself, shivering –and not only from his rain-soaked state. 

He pauses behind yet another house to consider his options. His vision is beginning to blur slightly from exhaustion and the overstrain on his wounds. He is unsure of how much longer he can continue to run without losing consciousness. 

In his attempt to gather more energy to resume his search for an escape, he does not hear the footsteps come up from behind him until he is suddenly tackled down. 

He gasps as he is slammed to the ground, a sharp pain erupting from his forehead, the handle slipping out of his blood-covered fingers. A terrifyingly familiar voice reaches his ears.

“Well, well,” Long Coat drawls, smug and amused. “Aren’t you a disrespectful harlot, attempting to leave without permission. Whatever shall we do to punish such insolence?” 

Lafayette’s panic rises to a new level, making him freeze with fear under Long Coat’s weight atop his back. The redcoat’s hand grips his neck tightly, pressing the side of the Marquis’ face into the thick mud under them, leaning close enough for Lafayette to feel his breath in his left ear.

“Did you truly think you could escape us? Escape  _ me? _ ” He chuckles as Lafayette shuts his eyes and whimpers. “You will die here, French scum. You ought to get that through that pretty little head of yours.” 

Long Coat uses his free hand to lift Lafayette’s stolen coat, causing the young Marquis to twitch helplessly under him. The British soldier places his hand on the small of Lafayette’s back, the touch repulsive to the Frenchman, before sliding it down along his side and underneath him. 

With thick, rough fingers, Long Coat presses against the fresh brand above Lafayette’s hip. 

Lafayette bites down on his lip to keep his wail to a minimal sound, his voice breaking with pain and absolute terror, while still attempting to remain as quiet as possible as not to draw the attention of other soldiers. It proves to be a near impossible task as his skin feels as though it is being both branded anew and violated by this sadistic man’s touch.

The taste of his own blood on his tongue is almost a welcomed distraction, albeit one that does not last for long.

“Such lovely sounds you make,” the redcoat on top of him purrs. “I shall look forward to hearing the ones you make as I take you, just like this, helpless and unable to do anything but scream for mercy.” 

Lafayette’s ears begin to ring, his limbs regaining some control at the reminder of the threat, Alexander’s voice shouting in his head to  _ get up! _ He blindly seeks his weapon, unbeknownst to the distracted soldier. 

“Or perhaps I’ll make use of that lovely mouth of yours first, mhm? Keep you nice and quiet for once,” he growls huskily, his lips brushing the Frenchman’s ear. 

Lafayette continues to dig his nails into the mud in search of his only hope, a traitorous sob escaping his bleeding lips, his head still held down by the soldier’s hand on his neck while the other continues to rub at the brand.

Black spots invade Lafayette’s vision, blurred by tears spilling from his eyes at the incessant influx of fiery pain. He cannot remain conscious any longer; he has lost the fight, it is all too much, and he cannot breathe, and  _ please _ –

Suddenly, Long Coat bites down hard on the tip of his ear, earning a sharp cry from the struggling Marquis, pulling him back from the edge of darkness only to send his vision tunnelling into pure terror.

_ ‘Focus, my dear Marquis _ , _ ’  _ Washington whispers somewhere alongside Alexander. ‘ _ Breathe.’ _

Lafayette snaps his eyes open, and takes a deep, shuddering breath, just as his hand closes around the handle. 

Summoning strength he could never imagine being able to find in any other moment of his life, Lafayette slams his head back against Long Coat. He hears an encouraging  _ crack  _ and a muffled shout from the other man.

As he suddenly finds half of the weight lifted off of him, the Frenchman wastes no time, rolling onto his back, and swings his weapon-wielding arm. 

He has no time to revel in his victory as the blood-curdling scream torn from Long Coat’s throat is sure to attract unwanted attention. As with the other soldiers he has killed today, Lafayette does not spare Long Coat a single glance, certain that the memory of impaling the man’s eye will surely haunt him soon enough. 

He finds a desolated place behind what he thinks to be the latrines, given the smell, and lets himself lean against a wheelless, wooden cart, groaning quietly as his head begins to spin. He raises a hand to his forehead, hissing as he feels a cut above his eyebrow. He does not bother assessing if the wound is bleeding, given how his entire body is already covered in multiple redcoats’ blood. 

Truthfully, he has already lost count. 

Cautiously observing his surroundings to ensure he is alone, he raises his head to the sky, narrowing his eyes in concentration as he shields them from the rain with his injured hand. It is difficult to gauge the exact time of the day with the greyness of the sky, not to mention he cannot be sure of the day itself. The clouds cruelly prevent the sun from casting his shadow, leaving him clueless as to the location of the four vector points. 

He needs to find East, where Chester is situated, and he cannot afford to continue running without proper direction. 

He grits his teeth in frustration at his inability to situate his position, and slumps against the broken cart. 

He is exhausted, in pain, and thirsty. The cold is beginning to slowly seep into him with the lack of movement, the throbs of his aches gradually regaining their dominance. 

Still breathing hard, he slips and nearly crashes down into the mud, thankfully reaching behind him to catch himself. His hand brushes against something wet and swamp-like. He looks down, and spots the fresh green moss attached to the length of the pulling bar, still raised. 

He blinks, and an idea strikes him. 

He remembers an instant in his youth, when on excursion in the woods of Chavaniac, his horse-riding tutor had explained to him an alternate way to find his way should the weather or thick foliage prevent it.

_ ‘Where moss grows best, the Northern sun has shone upon it,’  _ Baron Dubonnet had said.

With a sigh of relief and hoping his tutor had not been telling him nonsense, Lafayette heads towards where he will, until proven wrong, consider to be East. He curses his luck as he realizes he had been heading West. 

Nevertheless, with his internal compass somewhat readjusted, he resumes his escape with a merciful shot of adrenaline. 

As his ill fortune would have it once more, he is accosted by two soldiers as soon as he rounds the corner, and is therefore unable to entirely sidestep one of the soldiers’ bayonet. 

It catches him in his injured shoulder, making him stumble with a choked cry. The second soldier attempts to tackle him, but this time Lafayette is quick enough to dodge the attack. However, his ever-increasing light-headedness causes him to stumble, allowing the first soldier to nick him once more, cutting a shallow lesion on his abdomen. Undeterred, Lafayette spins around sharply, avoiding the second soldier’s attempt to tackle him, and stabbing the man in the chest. 

Not a second later, Lafayette finds himself pinned against the nearest wall, a hand around his throat, and another around his weapon-wielding wrist, holding it against the hard surface. The redcoat squeezes both the Frenchman’s wrist and throat simultaneously, forcing him to drop the handle while gasping for air. 

Lafayette’s legs flail weakly, his free hand coming to scratch at the man’s thick one around his throat, but the soldier’s strength quickly overpowers him. 

Black spots begin to dance in his vision as his windpipe is slowly being crushed, and the dawning realization that this is the end of his line makes him want to scream. 

He had managed to give himself a fighting chance so far, had conquered all of the obstacles thrown his way, had withstood the pain and overwhelming fear, only to be stopped by some nameless enemy. 

His eyelids flutter, struggling to remain open as breathless gasps make his chest spasm. This is it; this is where he meets his maker. He will never see Washington, Alexander, or John again. Although perhaps the two latter never made it out of Brandywine, he reminds himself. Perhaps he will see them in a few minutes in Providence. 

However, he wishes it not so, for they both deserve to live and accomplish greatness. 

Himself, on the other hand… He will simply sink into the world’s oblivion, fade away from its memory, alone, in fear and pain–  _ Helpless, alone, alonealonealone– _

A loud crack, and suddenly, there is nothing holding him up anymore, his knees taking the brunt of his fall. He gasps, wheezes, coughs, until his lungs properly inflate again and the spots have vanished from his eyes enough to make out his surroundings once more. 

Dizzy, he looks to the side, spotting the redcoat crumpled on the ground, either unconscious or dead. 

Then, the disoriented Frenchman peers up from his position on the ground, and registers a familiar smell, distinctive, acidic, clean,  _ safe _ . 

As he blinks a few more times, the stern features of Doctor Brocklesby sharpen.

Still in his dazed state, Lafayette is not quite able to comprehend this new development, and cannot be certain whether or not he voices a whimper aloud before bowing his head, feeling utterly depleted. 

He will not make it out of this prison, not alive, not when he cannot even will his knees to unfold from under him. 

And yet, he does. But not on his own: Brocklesby hooks his arms under Lafayette’s, pulling him up to a standing position. This time, the Marquis is certain he emits a wounded sound as unconsciousness pulls at him insistently. 

However, before he can sink into the soothing and dooming embrace of forceful rest, a sharp sound followed by an even sharper sting on his cheek drags his focus back somewhat. He flinches instinctively, until he reminds himself that the man holding him up is Brocklesby.

Why can he not make sense of this situation anymore? Brocklesby should not be here, should he? How is he here?

“Do not give up now, Mr. Lafayette,” the older man whispers, pulling him forward. “Head for the inn not two hundred feet over. Take a horse from its stables and ride it South-West to the green barn.”

_ ‘Listen carefully, my dear Marquis.’ _

Instructions. He must listen to the instructions. 

“There is an unguarded path behind it,” Brocklesby continues. “The  _ green _ barn, you hear?” 

Lafayette glances up at him with half-lidded, teary eyes. He gives a weak shake of his head, a choked, breathless sob falling from his lips.

“I...I c-cannot,” he rasps, tearful, fear and despair rendering his voice as pitiful as a lost child’s. “I–” 

“You can, and you must,” Brocklesby snaps at him. “I will mislead the soldiers.” 

He bends down to pick up the handle and hands it back to the Marquis, who takes it with a trembling hand. 

“I have heard word of Washington’s army in Lancaster, West of here,” the older man continues, while quickly shrugging off his own brown overcoat. “Avoid the main roads, for the Americans have lost much land around these parts.” 

The doctor swiftly slips his coat over Lafayette, the piece of clothing already gaining crimson stains from both the Marquis’ and his victims’ blood. Fortunately, this coat is large enough to fit over the red coat, while also allowing for the iron bracelets around Lafayette’s wrists to be hidden under the sleeves. 

It is also surely a better camouflage than the enemy’s coat, torn and bloodied and thus eye-catching as it has become. 

“Now go,” the older man urges, lifting a hand to pat the Frenchman’s cheek encouragingly, with an almost paternal gentleness. 

“ _ Docteur _ –” Lafayette chokes out, both as a plea and as gratitude. 

“ _ Go! _ ” Brocklesby hisses, pushing him in the direction of the inn. 

Lafayette stumbles forward, glancing back for what may very well be the last time at the doctor, the man who had offered him nothing but kindness and help since his arrival here, and at his own risk. 

Swallowing thickly around a sore throat, Lafayette attempts to focus back on the objective ahead, propelled by Brocklesby’s humanity and encouragement, as well as the desire to soothe away the man’s concern for his fate.

He is now ready to bargain with the Devil himself for the capacity to run. However, he retains enough common sense to undergo the path behind the houses towards the inn instead of the center street, nearly falling over with every step he takes. 

His injured leg protests each ounce of weight placed upon it, and Lafayette dimly wonders, should he survive this escape, if he will ever be capable of using it again.

Although the trek seems unending, the sound of horses neighing graciously informs him that he has found his first destination. He peers into the stables, and spots no sign of life except for the horses. 

Perhaps the mess he has left on his path has warranted even the stable hands’ assistance. Therefore, he permits himself to sheath his weapon into his hair once more, the rain and drying blood serving to keep his wild curls mostly in place. 

Looking over the nearest enclosure, Lafayette quickly assesses the residing chestnut-colored horse. He opens the latch of the gate, immediately moving to untie the horse’s bridle off the wooden post. 

As he approaches the proud beast –a mare, he notes–, she emits a bray and attempts to back away, surely unhappy about the thick scent of blood covering the fear-smelling human. Lafayette raises a placating hand, hushing the horse soothingly, as he has been taught to do. The mare produces a whine, but calms down nonetheless. 

Lafayette has always prided himself in easily creating trust with intelligent animals, and he is most relieved this skill has not abandoned him now. 

He pulls her out of her enclosure with gentle prompting, but nonetheless with hurry. His addled brain somehow still reminds him to keep his gaze forward as he guides her out, else he risks unsettling her. Once within proper space to mount, it takes him a few hastened attempts, the successful one the least graceful of all –not that he could possibly begin caring about such frivolities at this very moment–, as the lack of a saddle and stirrup pad make it much more challenging than usual, on top of his bone-weary state. 

When finally upright, he draws Brocklesby’s coat tighter around himself before snapping the reins and giving the horse a firm if clumsy nudge on her flank, prompting her to begin trotting. He knows he cannot have the mare break into a gallop, lest it attract too much attention. He hopes the ordinary coat will make him seem as a normal villager, if there are any. If not, well, he will cross that cursed bridge when he gets there. 

He hangs his head low while directing his stolen horse South-West as the doctor had instructed him to do, while also keeping an eye out for a green barn. It proves to be most arduous to keep himself upright and conscious while steering the mare and searching for a specific establishment.

The spinning has long since dragged him into a nauseous state. At least the newest cuts thankfully seem to bleed unimportantly –or so he gathers roughly, given the difficulty of differentiating his blood from his slain enemies’. The most recent burns left by the heated knife and branding iron, however, burn hotter than freshly concocted lava. 

While glancing around discreetly, he spots the confirmation that this is indeed Chadds Ford village, judging by the blurry letters above what could possibly be  _ une auberge _ . 

Perhaps he has finally been given an ounce of mercy, for he catches sight of seaweed green painted over what certainly looks like a barn. It takes all of his restraint not to order the horse into a gallop. Instead, he carefully trots towards the side of a sizable abode, where four people are standing by its side.

A man, perhaps ten years the Marquis’ senior –thankfully not sporting a redcoat–, a woman, and two young girls are working to lift bales of hay onto a chariot.

A family of villagers, it should seem.

They peer up at him curiously, their expressions quickly turning to shock at the sight of his blood coated face. The man is quick to stand in front of his family despite his weaponless hands. 

Never before has Lafayette frightened innocent bystanders, and the feeling is most grotesque. After all, he had come to America to free her people from the clutches of the British, and now here he is, probably the source of these harmless villagers’ daughters’ future source of nightmares.

Lafayette hurriedly but wordlessly raises a finger to his lips, shooting them what he hopes to come across as a pleading look for their silence. The father seems highly unsure, standing all the more stiffly and protectively in front of his family. 

The Frenchman slowly raises his hands in front of him in the universal sign of meaning no harm. Although given the state of his hands, perhaps it does him no good.

The two daughters, surely no older than twelve and thirteen, look confusedly and apprehensively at their parents. Lafayette expects the father to finally give a shout to the closest British soldiers, which would certainly mean the end of him.

No matter his despair to escape, the Marquis would never hurt an innocent, not even to save his own life. 

However, something about his appearance and fearful eyes must have pierced through to the mother, as she steps forward and nods sharply. She seems the braver and more compassionate of the two adults, and silently gestures towards the far end of the barn and to the right, where a low wooden fence separates their property from the rolling hills and thick trees, unguarded. 

With a grateful and relieved nod, he follows the kind woman’s directions, finally giving in to his urge to dash as fast as possible. With two quick snaps of the reins and matching nudges to the mare’s flanks, the well-trained creature rapidly gains speed, heading straight for the fence. Lafayette takes a deep breath, holds on tight, and lifts up from the horse’s back in time with her flawless jump. 

_ He has escaped.  _

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translations:
> 
> -Réfléchis, nom de Dieu: Think, for God’s sake 
> 
> -Dieu merci: Thank God 
> 
> -une auberge: an inn


	19. Homeward Bound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hi hi!
> 
> So sorry for the late update, it's been an unholy mixture of writer's block, lack of energy, school work, and adult life :/
> 
> My Darling Izz has helped me edit this chapter as well; THANK YOU MY LOVE! <3
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter, and hopefully the next chapter won't take as long -but my biology professor is attempting to murder our class...
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment to let me know of your thoughts!

* * *

_ Previously: _

_ With two quick snaps of the reins and matching nudges to the mare’s flanks, the well-trained creature rapidly gains speed, heading straight for the fence. Lafayette takes a deep breath, holds on tight, and lifts up from the horse’s back in time with her flawless jump.  _

_ He has escaped.  _

* * *

Horse riding, while usually a most pleasant and exhilarating activity, is currently threatening to render naught all of Lafayette’s efforts and success in his escape. 

The jump over the fence had already nearly caused him to be thrown off his nonexistent saddle.

Now, even an hour later, he knows he cannot stop; he must get as far away as possible from the British encampment, far away from Epaulettes and Long Coat –if the latter even survives the loss of his eye. The irony of the soulless man’s fate is not lost on Lafayette, given how the Marquis nearly had his own eye pierced and burned off a mere day ago by that very same man. 

Lafayette rides West towards Lancaster at a constant gallop while keeping to the discretion of the woods.

He has long since been teetering on the edge of unconsciousness –since the moment Long Coat had renewed his blood-curdling threat, more specifically. The terror of it has weakened him drastically, combined with the overall exertion his abused and malnourished body has been put through in the last couple hours or so, as well as his injuries both old and new. He scrambles to even remain astride the mare, slumping forward and gripping her mane, to avoid toppling to the wet ground.

Indeed, the rain does not relent, even seeming to thicken in weight and quantity, forcing him to slow the pace so as not to have the mare lose her footing. But Lafayette does not care, not when he is so close to finding safety, to distancing himself from further harm. 

He is so close to returning home, to the comfort of Alexander’s arms, and to Washington’s–

_ ‘Regrettable casualty.’ _

Alexander could be dead.

_ ‘You are not worth recovering.’ _

Will he even be welcomed back among his fellow soldiers? His friends? His Commander? His lover? Will the men he trusted and loved turn him away?

Lafayette pushes the thoughts away with alarming ease as the rain droplets which pelt down on his face prove to be an efficient distraction. Perhaps the rain is not such a malicious omen, after all. Besides, it will help in erasing his tracks. 

He wonders, however, if the extending blurriness in his vision is due to the water in his eyes, or his losing the battle against exhaustion. 

Everything is shifting around him, the trees distorting and bending as though in a dream. Yet, he himself has stopped moving, a fact which he only realizes with vague interest. The day has turned closer to night without his notice as well. He ought to continue, but his stomach protests violently, churning with the sudden dawning realization of what has transpired today. 

Before he can properly coordinate his limbs, Lafayette nearly throws himself off the horse to retch into the thick tree roots. Fresh images flash through his mind with painful details, reminding all five of his senses of the many lives he has so barbarically taken. 

The blood and innards of these men color his vision crimson, spilling warmly into his hands. Their cries of shock and pain, followed by their subsequent last struggle to live, resonate in his ears. He swears the metallic tang coats not only the inside of his nose, but his mouth as well. 

The Marquis continues to empty the meek contents of his stomach, tears stinging in his eyes, as the feeling of ripping open other human beings’ flesh continues to live and twitch in his fingers. 

He may have taken many lives prior to this day, on the battlefield–as a soldier is wont to do in a war–but never before had it felt as personal as it had today; previously, the use of his rifle would only echo through him by its heat, its victim faceless. His sword, molded and sharpened to kill, would not be given time to ponder its actions, so swift would it be moved onto another. 

But the weapon Lafayette had used for this escape had been neither faceless nor swift; it had taken resilient strength to cut into those men, and had forced him to stand as close as possible to reach for victory. He had felt the pulses of those men beneath his makeshift knife, the way they had soared with panic, as they had been cut into with savage intent. 

The sharpened handle weighs heavily in his hair, both shamefully and reassuringly.

While the rain has washed most of the blood off his skin, Lafayette nevertheless feels it caking the corners and creases of his features, behind his ears, under his nails, in his hair. He can still smell it, thick and viscous and  _ repugnant _ everywhere on him. 

The sounds of choking and death emitted by the slain soldiers, the sounds  _ he _ had drawn from them, the gurgle of blood jetting from their bodies, from their mouths, the way they had gagged loudly as the light had faded from their eyes. 

It all continues to pummel his eardrums. 

Long Coat’s words, his breath in Lafayette’s face, his body pressed on top of his back, trapping him, his teeth on his ear, his scream as his eye is impaled– 

The scene repeats in Lafayette’s mind as though in an eternal circle, making him heave yet again as he presses himself against the trunk of a large tree, his hands gripping its roots tightly. 

He had acted like a violent, instinct-driven, relentless man–  _ a monster. _

Would any other man perform as he did? Can he justify his actions by the despair of needing to escape? Can he never again linger on the thoughts of these men’s deaths? Can he truly ignore the feeling which had coursed through him as he had ripped open those soldiers’ skins?

_ How could he have felt damning satisfaction from this slaughter? _

The realization that he is not entirely consumed by the guilt of his monstrous actions sickens him all the more. He is no better than those soldiers who sought their amusement in his suffering, no better than Epaulettes or Long Coat. 

_ What has he become?  _

His arms soon give out from under him, every inch of his body begging for respite, his mind torn between keeping vigilance or succumbing to the pleas. 

With a final unsuccessful attempt to push himself back up, Lafayette finally yields into the gentle arms of oblivion.

_ ~ * ~ _

_ He is back in Chavaniac, lounging in the grass under the warmth of the sun. A thin layer of sweat coats his hairline as he soaks in the heat of the beautiful summer day. He sits up lazily, his stomach growling. He reaches to his right where a luscious red apple awaits him, picking it up to take a bite. It tastes delicious. _

_ He wonders where Alexander and Washington have gone. Had they not said they would return shortly?  _

_ He looks around, finding no sign of them among the seemingly endless fields. There are no trees, no vineyards, not a single house for miles. Only tall grass, both yellow and green, waving with the wind.  _

_ An odd feeling settles in the pit of his stomach. He blinks, and the day has turned dark with grey clouds. He is soaked from the downpour of rain, but unable to move to seek shelter. He looks down at his apple, but it is gone, now replaced with a bloody piece of metal. _

_ A figure appears faraway in the fields, wearing red. It begins to run towards him. Frightened, Lafayette wants to run, but his legs will not obey. Yet he is now standing. The figure is approaching, its face unrecognizable.  _

_ Why can he not run?! There is not much time left! _

_ He looks down, and finds his bare feet shackled to the earth, unrelenting. Panic fills him. The man will be here soon, and he cannot move. He glances back up, a cry stuck in his throat as suddenly, the redcoat is right in front of him. _

_ The stranger smiles, his teeth bloodied. The rest of his features are blurred. “You’ve killed me,” it says, its words hosting multiple voices at once. _

_ Lafayette falls backwards, landing on his back on the rough cobblestone. The sky is no longer visible, replaced by the dark walls of his cell.  _

_ The stranger’s face slowly morphs into Epaulettes’, then Long Coat’s, then both at the same time. It is monstrous. It crawls on top of Lafayette’s frozen, suddenly naked body. _

_ “You will never escape, Gilbert,” the creature growls in his ear, its voice now too close to Alexander’s. _

_ Its tongue, unnaturally long, licks along his ear. “You are ours to do as we please.” _

_ Lafayette cannot scream, cannot move. He is paralyzed with terror, unable to fight against the monster rumbling and licking at his ear. Helpless, helpless, helpless–! _

_ ~ * ~ _

Lafayette awakens with a gasp, bolting upright, eyes snapping open and immediately darting in all directions, seeing nothing but blurred browns and greens. 

Where is he? What has happened? 

Before he can regain his senses, a soft neigh to his left makes him jump. He snaps his head towards the sound, blinking furiously to dispel the remnants of delusions from his eyes. 

The sight of the horse standing there, calm and somehow looking curious, sends the events crashing back into Lafayette’s mind. 

He had escaped. He had made it out of his imprisonment, alive and– 

Perhaps ‘well’ would be too optimistic, given the way his body is already reminding him of its aches and pains. But nevertheless, he is  _ alive _ , a feat he had not truly believed to achieve until proven so. 

He looks down at himself briefly, assessing; the cut in his palm is covered in dirt and dried blood, but no longer bleeding. The two cuts sustained on his shoulder and abdomen are in similar shape, both shallow but nevertheless in need of cleaning. The one on his forehead, he can only guess to be in equal appearance. All throb with various degrees of intensity, but not cripplingly so.

It seems his time in captivity has altered his tolerance for pain.

The rest of him, however, is a different matter entirely. His hands continue to tremble, causing his dangling loose chains to rattle in a matching rhythm. 

He looks around again, this time with a relatively focused vision and regular heartbeat.

It is no longer raining, bar a few droplets falling from the trees. He is deep into a forest, nothing but large, looming conifers as far as his eyes can see. Which forest, however, he is unsure of, as he is unable to properly remember the events following the moment he had jumped over the fence with his stolen mare. 

The horse in question is now chewing on some fescue at the base of the trunk where Lafayette must have lost consciousness some time ago, and he only then realizes that she must have been the one to rouse him. 

Clever girl. He ought to name her. 

How long he had ridden on her back away from the British camp, he is also unsure. He does remember the sun letting way to the moon, and it is now daylight, thus he has hopefully only slept through the night and no longer –although he would much value an entire week’s worth of rest, could he afford it. 

_ ‘I have heard word of Washington’s army in Lancaster, West of here,’ _ Brocklesby had said. 

At the thought of the doctor, the man who had treated him with civility and care, who had given him a blanket, extra rations, who had risked suspicion by requesting leniency from Epaulettes. 

The man who had helped him escape. 

One day, Lafayette will find him again, and thank him properly. 

But for now, he must reach his destination, even before giving himself the luxury to rest, lest he be stumbled upon by British scouts. He shudders at the thought, reaching into what remains of his bun of hair to ensure his weapon is still there. He dares not to pull it out yet, unwilling to see the remnants of flesh that must have dried on it. 

Standing proves to be a struggle, his injured leg unwilling to take any more strain, whilst his damp coats weigh him down all the more. He considers shedding them, but they would prove useful once dry. After all, wearing a red coat, no matter how distasteful and stained with blood, could serve to his advantage should he come across more enemies. 

His weak state, overall soreness, and aching wounds are certainly not helping him regain his balance. The trunk of the tree is of great help, however. 

The horse, bless her, does not shy away from his touch. 

“ _ Merci, ma belle, _ ” he whispers to her, his voice rough and raspy. An odd twinge of discomfort courses through him at the use of his own language. He ignores the voice in his head hissing in warning, continuing to address the mare, “How shall I name you, then?” 

She nickers, and he pats her head gently. “We ought to find water first, yes?” He is parched, and while the smart mare might have suckled on the wetness of the moss, it is no proper refreshment for the hours he must have ridden her. 

Gripping a low branch, Lafayette lifts himself painstakingly back on top of the horse, whose name he is still pondering. 

This time, he has no difficulty finding West. 

It is a cool day, the air smelling as though another shower might become a possibility in the later hours. A quarter of an hour into the cautious walk, Lafayette struggles to keep his bleary eyes and ears open for a source of water. Surely with the amount of rain poured recently, there should be a nearby– 

There. The sound of rushing water. Not overly loud to be a cascade, but constant enough to be gathered in one place. He directs the horse to walk towards the sound, sighing in relief as after five more minutes, he spots the trees beginning to make way for a small stream compacted by rocks, around ten feet from one bank to the other. While the stream must have previously been but a small rivulet, the rain has now caused it to enlarge enough to continue running its course. 

He stops at the edge of the tree lining, slowly taking in the parallel open space. When nothing but birds catch his eye, he dismounts the horse and guides her to the stream bank. She drinks without needing prompting. 

Lafayette kneels a few feet away from her, and begins cleaning his hands into the water. He hisses as he rubs the self-inflicted cut on his palm, bringing it up to inspect it. Without all the dirt and dried blood around the wound, the cut is even less of a pleasant sight; while it is not deep, it is crude, shallow on both extremities as a result of his hesitation. He will have to cover it so that it does not dirty up again. 

His hands now relatively clean, he scoops up the clear water, nearly moaning at the feeling of the cool water making its way down his sore throat. 

_ Blessed be nature and her miracles _ , he thinks. No water has ever tasted so agreeable in his entire life; the taste of freedom. 

The mare seems to think so as well, given her rapid gulping. Lafayette glances at her, amused –perhaps deliriously so– by his own projection. Nevertheless, it strikes an idea in his mind. 

“Liberty,” he declares to her fondly. “I will call you Liberty.” 

She does not react, continuing to take her fill, and Lafayette takes it as a silent approval of the name. 

He continues to satiate his thirst, drinking clumsily with shaking hands. Droplets slide down his chin along his throat, creating a clearer path of his skin among the dried blood and mud. 

A startled noise escapes him however, as the water caresses the burnt skin on his throat with painful deceleration, nearly causing him to choke on his swallow. 

He brings a hand up reflexively, hissing at the mere brush of his fingers against the shapeless marred skin. A shiver crawls up his spine in recollection, a bright orange glare flashing behind his eyelids. 

He shakes his head to rid himself of the occurrence and the memory, not realizing that he is clenching his injured hand into a fist until the sting reminds him of the cut. 

Unwilling to remain in the open space any longer, Lafayette stands, hissing as he foolishly presses his injured palm on the ground for balance. 

Eyeing the wound with distrust, Lafayette sighs. He really ought to keep his hand as clear of dirt as possible. And so, without hesitation nor regret, he sharply rips a piece from the red coat’s sleeve to tie around his hand. 

The action is oddly satisfying. 

Liberty regards his actions for a moment before occupying herself with nibbling on meadow-grass. Lafayette nearly snorts at the thought that he would currently enjoy being a horse for the sake of satisfying the creeping hunger by eating whichever grass he comes across. 

A small gush of wind shakes the trees around him, reminding him of where he is. He must continue his journey home. 

He brushes a stray lock away from his eye as he prepares to coax Liberty into departing. However, it falls right back in its previous bothersome way. 

Thus, with an annoyed grunt, Lafayette then plucks the linked straws holding his hair haphazardly up, the makeshift hair tie snapping without effort. 

He jumps minutely as the weaponized cup handle falls to the ground with a dull thump. 

He stares at it for a couple seconds before hesitantly picking it up. His throat tightens uncomfortably at the sight of red strings still coating the weapon even after the rain; his hair must have shielded it. 

The image of Long Coat’s perforated eye flashes through his mind and he drops the handle as though it has burned him. 

Tearing his eyes away from the aluminium piece, Lafayette quickly busies himself with ripping away another piece of the red atrocity of a coat, using it to tie his hair back into a solid queue. He grimaces as there is clearly blood still stuck to his scalp, but he ignores it. 

He has lost enough time as it is, and the state of him matters not. 

Glancing at the handle, he delays only a second, before picking it up again and placing it back into his hair near the makeshift ribbon, while walking back purposefully towards Liberty. 

He mounts her once again with the aid of a branch, and promptly resumes his route West-bound. Hopefully, he will spot some edible berries or mushrooms on the way, but that is far from being his priority. 

* * *

Over seven hours pass –gauging by the sun’s movements– before Lafayette finally catches sight of a town from afar. Keeping to the woods has proven to be a longer journey, but Lafayette had been unwilling to risk being spotted still too close to Chadds Ford, not knowing how much more terrain the British have conquered since his capture.

Cautiously, he exits the safety of the forest, and finds a path worn down by the passage of wheels. He draws Brocklesby’s coat tighter around himself, making sure it hides the red coat beneath it. 

When he reaches an intersection, he breathes a sigh of relief as one of the road signs indicates that the nearby town is indeed Lancaster. He heads for where he hopes Washington and his troops are settled –and if Providence is merciful, Alexander and John as well.

Moreso, he vehemently prays that he will not encounter the British army instead. 

As Lafayette nears the town enough to spot Betsy Ross’ flag, flying proudly as a beacon of hope at the entrance of Lancaster, he decides to stop and discard the red coat. It would not do to be confused for an enemy and shot on sight, even if the cold is suddenly more prominent from his removed piece of clothing. 

Following the main road on a slow trot, Lafayette eventually comes to a stop right beside the pole supporting the waving flag of the nation he holds so dear, the one he fought for. 

The one he was captured for, wounded for, tortured for, almost ra– 

“Are you lost, Sir?” a voice ahead of Lafayette startles him out of the trance the flag had put him in. He quickly hushes Liberty as she neighs in displeasure before turning his attention to the stranger. 

Or strangers, as it is. Three men, civilians, stand a few feet in front of him, looking at him oddly. Their numbers make Lafayette uncomfortable, his back tensing and hands gripping his horse’s mane tightly in preparation to flee if needed. 

He mentally scolds himself for such a reaction; these men surely mean him no harm, and this city is not under British occupation. All is well. 

“I have need of information, Sirs,” he responds, his English fragmented. He ignores the chill that travels down his spine as he remembers Epaulettes first stating his intent to gain information from him. “Is General Washington now in this city?” 

It does not escape Lafayette’s notice how the men’s eyes narrow only a couple words into his query. 

“Whatcha want with Washington?” one of them asks suspiciously. 

Lafayette swallows down the sudden nervousness threatening to bubble up to the surface. “I must speak to him.” 

Two of the men glance at each other while the third one sneers. “Well he ain’t here no more.” 

Lafayette’s heart drops. How much longer before he can finally rest in the safety of his fellow soldiers’ comfort? His strength has long since been depleted, and the few mushrooms he had luckily found in the forest will not sustain him enough for a longer trek. Furthermore, every inch of his body aches feverishly; even holding himself on his horse proves to be a most arduous task. 

He ought to seek shelter here for the night, and resume his search in the morning. 

However, he is without means to pay for accommodation, or food. He does not adorn his blue colors, and his physical state is enough to lead to the false belief that he is a miscreant. He doubts he will receive any benefactors, but nevertheless, he must try. 

First, however, he must find out Washington’s location. 

“I see,” he says, not quite able to hide the tiredness from his voice. “May you tell me where he is gone?” 

“You lookin’ to sign up, frog?” the first one asks derisively, making the other two laugh. 

Fear unexpectedly sinks its claws into him, forcing his heart to beat faster in anticipation of an attack. It becomes harder to quiet the voice telling him that these men mean to return him to the British, nonsensical as he knows the thought to be. 

“N-No,” Lafayette stutters. Under him, Liberty shifts, sensing his mounting fear. “But I must speak to him with urgent. If you do not know of his–” 

“They don’t want your sort in their ranks, ya know,” the first one spits, his tone no longer polite and helpful as it had been when he had asked Lafayette if he was lost. “I hear ya just come out here in your fancy ships, paradin’ around and don’t do nothin’.” 

_ ‘Regrettable casualty.’ _

“I–” Lafayette pulls the mare’s mane to take a few steps back, his blood igniting with the need to  _ run–hide– _

“You just costin’ ‘em money,” the second one adds. “That money’s for our soldiers, not you French fucks.” 

_ ‘French scum.’ _

“I-I apologize,” the Marquis attempts again, his throat closing. “I must only speak to him–” 

“Maybe we tell him,” the first one says, amused. “Let him be crushed by Washington himself for wastin’ his time. Bet ya the poor thing’ll be cryin’ and run back home.” 

The others laugh merrily. 

“Go on then, frog,” the third one waves him off. “Word is, Washington’s in Valley Forge. Go get your due!” 

All thoughts of remaining here for the night vanish, and Lafayette awaits not a second longer before turning Liberty around and breaking into a gallop, the mocking laughs of the three strangers resonating loudly behind him. 

His eyes are stinging, and he curses himself for his weakness. He does not understand why he reacts this way, when once upon a time he would have not hesitated to dismount his horse, either charm his way into an agreeable exchange, or snap his witty tongue and raise his fists to defend his honor. 

His addled brain at least has the decency to inform him that Valley Forge is East of Lancaster. But it is quite a few hours of travel if he recalls, and he ought to take the road towards Reading rather than Morgantown. It is a longer route, but a safer one to his knowledge. 

Surely not so much must have changed in his time in captivity. 

Oh, but he tires. He hungers. He  _ aches _ , yet still rides towards the clouds whose appearance he had predicted that morning. The wind is already picking up, and he now regrets divesting himself of the red coat. Nevertheless, he judges his decision not to wear it to have been a sound one, as the consequences would have been dire should the three men have spotted it. 

The first drops of rain begin their descent as the sun sets, and Lafayette cannot find it in him to appreciate its beauty, shivering as he already is. The weather has become noticeably colder since September 11th, certainly, but it is not yet unbearable. 

So why is he feeling ice settling in his bones? 

His heart will not slow down, despite the fact that he is now securely away from Lancaster, and any other gathering of habitations. He passes by a few lonely houses, but not a single lone traveler. 

In these times of war, many avoid travel unless the Continental army is passing. 

Lafayette’s head grows heavier with each mile he puts behind him, his hands slowly losing their grip on Liberty’s mane as his arms become as stiff as wooden boards. The cut on his shoulder, continuously rustled as he rocks up and down and brushed by the fabric of the brown coat, rapidly recommences to burn anew.

As a matter of fact, the burn has spread down his right arm and across his chest all the way to his back where the welts have since mostly closed. It labors his breathing. He means to pat it soothingly over the cotton cloth, but quickly retracts his fingers at the warmth he finds there. 

There is fresh blood seeping through the fabric, informing him that the cut has been aggravated. Its heat seems to engulf his entire body now, sending flares of pain to each point of injury across his skin. 

His shackles, rubbing back and forth from the gallop, irritate the marks on his arms. The eighteen cursed lines that mare his skin. The burn on the skin of his throat from the dagger meant for his eye pulses with each swallow, and the brand above his hip mocks him. 

_ A tiger. _

They laugh at him. 

Christ, but he is tired. But he cannot stop, not until he finds Washington, and Alexander, and John, and– 

_ ‘You are not worth recovering.’  _

Lafayette shakes his head vehemently, trying to disperse Epaulettes’ lying words from his head. 

_ But what if they are not lies? _

No. Washington would not abandon him. The bond between them is true and deep, of that he must be certain. He  _ must  _ be. Otherwise, he has gone through this entire hellish ordeal for naught, his loyalty nothing but a fool’s jest.

Still, he rides with desperate speed, for hours on end, passing around Adamstown, Reading, and Douglassville before night falls.

He blinks with heavy eyelids. The rain is now pouring, filling up Schuylkill River until it begins to overflow, already near the brim from the previous night’s rain. 

Lafayette and his mare gallop alongside it, following its flow towards the next town. The world begins to tilt dangerously again, the focus he had regained this morning vanishing with a vengeance. 

The first crack of thunder lights up the sky as they pass Pottstown, startling him and frightening Liberty. She halts abruptly with a whine, prompting Lafayette to grip onto her neck to avoid being thrown forward. 

But as the mare suddenly rises up on her hind legs, he is unable to stop himself from falling backwards. 

He lands on his back, pain erupting from his every vertebra up to his skull, the breath forced out of his aching lungs, before it all gives way to what he believes to be short unconsciousness. He fights it however, and is therefore unsure if he has truly been knocked out, or if he is simply lying there, groaning at the way his body has been tossed helplessly. 

He struggles to breathe more than shallow breaths, all the while terrified that the fall may have paralyzed him as he cannot seem to move any of his limbs. He groans loudly, throwing all his weight into shifting the slightest bit, each twitch of his body sending a fresh wave of pain through his bones. 

Finally, he musters enough energy to turn to his side, unable to revel in the relief of the movement as the rough ground rubs sharply against the cursed seal beneath his meagre clothes, making him cry out. 

Nausea quickly rises to his throat from both the fire erupting from his skin, and the twisted reminder of his branded status. 

When the black dots eventually clear from his eyes, he notices with shock how close he had been to falling straight into the river’s strong currents. 

He would have been unable to swim in his state, of that he is certain. 

He must stand back up, he knows, but it seems an impossible task when the sun is as hot as it is, heating his skin to an almost insufferable degree. So he remains there, not entirely by choice, sprawled on the ground. 

He frowns then, suddenly confused, glancing up at the night sky. The sun? No, that is preposterous. But then, why does his skin feel as though it is being cooked over Hell’s inferno itself? He should be cold, especially with the rain doing its best effort to soak him to the bone. 

By way of answer, his shoulder sends another missive of its pain. 

_ Infection _ , Brocklesby tells him. But he is not here. Not unless– 

Panic suddenly grips at Lafayette: If Brocklesby is here, then Epaulettes must be close behind, ready to give his orders to Long Coat to hurt him, drown him; to do as he wants. 

The Frenchman scrambles up, liquid fire igniting in his veins with the need to  _ escape _ – _ escape _ – _ escape _ – 

Where is his horse? Where  _ is  _ she? They are coming! 

“Liberty!” he shouts as he sets off in an uncoordinated run, his voice broken and fearful. 

He slips in the mud, and cries out as he lands in a way that has his neck arching back, stretching the burnt skin of his throat sharply. He jerks to the side to avoid the orange blade aimed at him.

_ Hallucination _ , Epaulettes growls.

Lafayette rises back up, terror fuelling his movements, tears of fright building in his eyes at the sound of Epaulettes’ voice shouting for him from behind. 

“No! Leave me be! Please!” he shouts back at the empty air around him. “Alexander! George!  _ Aidez-moi, par pitié! _ ” 

He cannot see past a foot ahead of him, blinded as he is by the rain and darkness. Nevertheless, he continues to run, breathless and burning up with fever, every part of him aching. 

_ ‘Pathetic little thing, aren’t you?’ _

Lafayette falls again, and this time he does not get back up, curling onto himself as he shakes from head to toe, a sob tearing from his throat. Everything hurts, it all burns, he will surely combust. 

_ They are here! Run!  _ shouts his mother. 

They will drag him back to the room, plunge him into the barrel, burn his skin, again and again until his lungs give out and there is not a single inch of him left to mark. They will pierce his eyes, brand him theirs, tear his body from the inside until his soul shatters. 

_ I cannot take anymore, please–! _

He screams, terrified and in pain, begging to be left alone, when there is nothing around him but memories to hear his pleas. 

The earth under him –or is it cobblestone– shifts, opening up to swallow him whole. And yet, he finds himself floating away from it instead. His feet are moving, but it is not his doing; it cannot be, not when he wishes to remain as he is, temporarily safe from harm in his own corner of the cellar. 

He blinks, mud sticking to his eyelashes –or is it the blood of the British soldiers? What is he doing, where is he now? 

His stomach constricts, and he bends in half to spit out nothing but bile. He feels himself falling forward, but instead of landing closer to the ground, he finds himself higher above it. 

He is moving rapidly now. A familiar smell reminds him of the stables in Chavaniac. He had always enjoyed braiding the horses’ manes, and had loved how it had felt between his fingers. Alexander occasionally lets him play with his hair, too. His  _ petit lion _ ’s hair is shorter, darker, softer than any other creature on this Earth. 

He is cold again. Perhaps it has begun to snow. Lafayette does not know how long he was kept under lock and key, after all. Perhaps it has been mere days. Perhaps it has been weeks, months, years. Perhaps the war is long since over. 

Perhaps he has long since been forgotten. 

Dots of light appear in his vision, and he thinks them pretty. Fireflies, possibly. But no, they are too immobile to represent these little excitable flying insects. Stars? No, too close to the ground, unless he himself has managed to float all the way up to the Heavens. Surely not, for he believes his afterlife to belong rather downwards. 

He has failed this young country, after all; he has failed everyone. 

His parents, watching from Above, must think him a pitiful heir, a pathetic excuse for the bearer of the Lafayette coat of arms. How could he ever hope to hold such a title when his own skin has been made to belong to those against whom he stood? 

The little dots of light continue to flicker from afar. Could they be lanterns? Although lanterns would mean a town, would it not? But he must avoid towns, he must avoid Epaulettes. Yet was he not seeking a town? Was he not seeking someone? His beloved– 

Panic strikes his chest as would Zeus’ lightning; he is leading the British, Epaulettes and Long Coat, straight to Alexander, straight to Washington, and John! They will be captured! They will be tortured as he was! 

“–oes there!” 

The lights are getting closer, a faint echo of voices reaching his blood-pumping ears. Has he been spotted? Were they not chasing him from behind? 

“–alt!” a deep voice is shouting, “–your busine–!” 

Lafayette is then aware he is no longer moving. The lights are only a few feet away, suspended on a large gate. Their shine seems to bleed, gaining and losing focus with each blink of his eyes. 

“I...” he vaguely hears himself slur meaninglessly. What had he come here to do? “I... Wash’n’ton... I must...” 

There are figures in front of him now, blurred and blue. Blue is good, is it not? 

“Is that–” 

“It cannot–” 

The world tilts again, and it is with a choked plea that Lafayette finally succumbs to the bliss of unconsciousness once more, the final thought to whisper in his mind one of an imploration not to awaken back in his cell. 

  
  
  


* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translations :
> 
>  Merci, ma belle: Thank you, my pretty  
>  Aidez-moi, par pitié: Help me, please


End file.
